


The Good Lie

by icantwritegood



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternative Universe - FBI, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, I'm taking some lenience here and making Ricky italian, Italian Mafia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reluctant Co-operation, Rivalry, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence, Violence, god i love that shit, just for fun, some 1950s terms and mafia terms I'll put in the notes, that grudging mutual respect thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2020-07-10 09:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 133,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/pseuds/icantwritegood
Summary: as per usual, i have a song that inspired tinsley and ricky's relationship in thishttps://youtu.be/H7bHGKWGzP0god i love florence welch





	1. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as per usual, i have a song that inspired tinsley and ricky's relationship in this
> 
> https://youtu.be/H7bHGKWGzP0
> 
> god i love florence welch

"There's already been three deaths over the past week. No doubt mafia-related. And it's just going to get worse."

"I know, I know, but-"

"But what, Banjo?"

He followed her down the vacant hallway; it was late, later than he'd usually stay, and everyone else had gone home. "Don't call me that. Not in work."

"You're not in work. You're off the clock." Holly continued on, eyeing the door at the end of the corridor, underneath which was a strip of light. "I'm afraid this is very important."

"But he's my best detective, I-"

"I'm commandeering him."

"Oh please don't."

She reached the office door and knocked lightly, ignoring the chief's pout. There was a curious reply from inside the office.

"Come in?"

She went in. The owner of the office was sat at his desk. It was a simple office. There wasn’t a single unnecessary object in the room. There were two windows, one to the left of the desk and one to the right. The banker’s lamp was the only source of light at this time of the evening. The desk itself was simple dark wood with a glass top and a blotter, quite stained with ink. The man at the desk glanced up as they came in, and the light from the lamp emphasized the sharpness of his face. Holly wasn’t certain what gave the man such a hawk-like appearance; his pointed nose or his quietly observant eyes. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t scowl either. He just looked, taking every last detail in. She doubted he looked at anything without taking every last detail in. Banjo eventually introduced them.

“Miss Holly, this is Detective Tinsley. Our resident expert in mafia-related activities. Unofficial, might I add.”

She nodded, not looking away from the detective in question. She liked him already. “Evening, detective. I apologize for calling so late.”

He rested a long finger under the frame of his glasses, nudging them up along his nose to give her a closer look. “It’s alright.”

The chief opened his mouth yet again. “Miss Horsley is-”

“I’d like to have a word with you, detective,” she said, speaking for herself. “In private.”

Tinsley sat back, revealing more than one side of his face now. He looked about thirty, although his thick head of hair gave him a boyish edge. He was handsome, not strikingly so, but in a pleasantly distinctful way. He waved a gentle hand at the seats in front of him. He had nice hands, neat and long-fingered, and a watch was fixed around his wrist with a leather strap. “Sure.”

She gave the chief a pointed look. He sheepishly departed. She took the right of the two seats and placed her bag on the floor and crossed her legs and smoothed down her skirt. Tinsley watched her with open interest, his brows raised, patient. She debated a smile, but decided against it. Business had to be discussed.

“My name is Holly Horsley. I’m from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” She allowed a pause for the usual _but you’re a woman_ spiel. It didn’t come. She gladly continued. “I’ve heard that you’re very interested in the mafia and their current dealings.”

He nodded. “I am.”

“That’s good. That’s very good.” She linked her hands over her knee. “Would you mind telling me what you know?”

He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. “I suppose I know a lot, Miss Horsley. I’m not too sure where to start.”

“I am.” She watched his face. “What is the basic structure of the mafia as of now?”

Tinsley arched an eyebrow at the sudden question. “Is this an examination of some sort?”

“It would seem so.”

The detective nodded at this, seemingly appreciative that she didn’t sugarcoat it. “Alright. Well, there’s the boss. Or the Don. Then there’s the underboss, usually next in line for the throne, so to speak. Runs the day-to-day activities of the family and oversees its… ventures. The _consigliere_ is the Don’s right-hand man. A close friend, an advisor, a mediator, a representative. Under him are the capos, and they’re in charge of a crew of _soldats_ and associates. Usually ten to twenty _soldats_ , and then an undetermined amount of associates.” He spoke with light familiarity, like they were just chatting over lunch. “All of them have to be some part Italian, apart from the associates. But the associates can still wield just as much power as the rest.” Then he smiled. “Do I pass?”

“That question, yes.” She seemed impressed, although not by much. “And do you know their current activities?”

“I know Prohibition is finally over and they’ve all made their millions.”

“And they’ll want to make millions more.”

“I’m sure.”

She watched him closely with slate-grey eyes. “What do you think their next focuses will be?”

He looked aside at this, thoughtful. “Nothing will make them as much money as Prohibition did.”

“And what do you think they’ll do instead.”

He scratched at his stubbled jaw, still pensive. Then he looked back at her. “I’m not sure.”

After a few long seconds she smiled. “That’s the correct answer, detective.” She picked up her bag and got to her feet. “There’s going to be an onslaught of experimenting by the families. They’ll try their luck in anything that could get them close to the level of cash they were getting during Prohibition - extortion, money-laundering, casinos, prostitution, you name it. So we’re recruiting for the war, so to speak.” She placed her bag on the desk between them and opened it, taking out a thick file. She handed it over without reluctance. “We’re assigning teams to different families. If you agree to help us, you’ll be assigned to this one.”

He stared at the file for a long few seconds. Then he stood up, revealing himself to be of quite an intimidating height, and took the file from her hand. He opened it to the first of many pages. “The Garafalos. I haven’t heard of them before.”

She smiled dryly. “They’re fondly referred to as the Goldsworths, every pun intended.”

Ah. He had heard of them. They were pretty notorious around this side of the city. He drew out the list of names, the main family, the mother and father and son and daughter. Lorenzo, Lucía, Ricardo, and Isabella.

“They’re tight-knit,” said Holly, watching his reaction from where she stood. “Lorenzo is the boss, and his wife is his _consigliere_. I know, it’s rare, but she is, and she’s not to be trifled with. His son is next in line, and his time is coming soon.”

Tinsley looked at her from under his brows. “Meaning?”

“We have word Lorenzo is on his last legs,” said Holly. “Mere months left.”

He lowered his gaze back to the name. _Ricardo_. “And the son. What’s he like?”

“Vicious, but not stupid. Unfortunately. But you’ll learn more about him if you accept this offer.” She raised her eyebrows as he looked at her. “Perhaps you’d like to sleep on it?”

He nodded, seeming a bit dumbstruck. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll have an answer by tomorrow.”

“Perfect. My home and office numbers are on the back of the last page.” She smiled at him, warm. “I hope you grab this opportunity while it’s being dangled in front of you, detective. From what I’ve heard, I think you could go far.”

He sat back down when she left, legs crossed, the open file resting on his knee as he flipped through it. He was looking for a certain list. Mafia families were frequently honorable, more honorable than your everyday man, and this was a weakness in Tinsley’s eyes. There was no list made up, so he ended up staying in his office until midnight, picking apart the suspected activities of the family, their dynamics with each other, what blood had been spilled for what prices. The ethnicity was clearly a factor; all of the main members were Italian by their father’s lineage. _Omertà_ was quite clear in the lack of cooperation with authorities. Tinsley ticked the murders of family members off against each other; some had retaliations, some didn’t, and those which had retaliations didn’t seem to have retaliations in return. He knew that murders within families usually required permission from the head of the family. So there was a code, without a doubt. Tinsley sat back and took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. He debated whether or not to take on the case, but he supposed he’d taken it on already.

He checked his watch. It was pushing midnight. He supposed he should go home.

* * *

It was quite easy to realize whether or not Ricky Goldsworth was in a bad mood. The clearest sign of a bad spell was the absence of a bright smile on his face. Instead there would be a hardness to his eyes and an almost visible storm cloud over his head, sparking lightning. Another clear sign was whether or not he conducted business in his office. Such as now. He was conducting business in the dining room, and he was not enjoying it in any regard. But, as his mother had taught him, he just had to suffer through it. His mother also said he had a temper, and lord, did Ricky Goldsworth have a temper. It was rare, but so were earthquakes. And fire tornadoes. And mega tsunamis. He sat and he listened to what was being said to him.

“Your father is sick.”

Ricky’s gaze didn’t even flicker. He stayed sitting, the fingers of one hand slowly rubbing off his thumb in circles. “I’m aware.”

The capo kept his chin up. “He’s dying.”

“I’m sure you’ll get to the point some time today, yes?”

The capo shared a look with the other two before looking back at Ricky. He took a few breaths to try and steady his voice. It didn’t quite work. “We can’t have a man like you leading us.”

Ricky’s head tilted aside at this, his dark eyes flashing. He got to his feet, casual, moving to the dark wood drinks cabinet beside them. He unscrewed the top of the grappa and poured a small shot. “Elaborate, _il_ _mio amico_.”

There was an anxious shuffling of feet. “Your unnatural tendencies. They aren’t acceptable.”

Ricky lifted the shot, examining the clear liquid closely. Then he threw it back, smooth, before dropping the small glass back onto the cabinet. “That is a pity. I see we’re stuck in a stalemate. Because, you see, _you_ don’t want a man like _me_ leading you, but _I_ don’t want to be leading men like _you_.” He suddenly laughed, a sharp sound. “Life is full of ironies, isn’t it, _caro amico_.” 

He lifted the bottle of grappa again and poured another shot. This time, he didn’t stop pouring it. He poured until the entire bottle was empty, until the liquid was splashing to the wooden floor and the bottle was glugging loudly. He tossed the empty bottle lightly in his hand, watching it with curious eyes. Then he turned and struck the capo hard across the head with it. By the time the man had fallen to the floor Ricky had smashed the end of the bottle off the wall and was back at him, sitting across his chest and driving the jagged end down into the man’s throat, over and over, and he wasn’t sure if the capo died from losing his blood or from drowning in it. There was a lot of choking and spluttering. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he died, and his scum words died with him. 

Ricky sat back when he was done, panting for breath. He tossed the bloodied bottle aside before wiping his stained hands relatively clean on the man’s shirt. He could feel some droplets warm on his face, but he decided to leave them there for now. He got to his feet, straightening out his tie with a self-satisfied smile. Then he turned on his heel, graceful, to face the other capos.

“Well, gentlemen. Does anyone else have any objections to a man like me leading you.”

They shook their heads, numb.

“Good. That’s very good.” Ricky moved towards them, and despite being the shortest person in the room, he was still the largest figure. “I know my tendencies are not a well-known subject. So let me tell you something right now.” He lowered his voice to a borderline growl. “If I hear anyone, _anyone_ , talking about me, or laughing about me, or gossiping about me over fucking lunch, I’ll know it came from one of you two. And I’ll find out which one of you two it was. And then I’ll take you apart, slowly.” He suddenly smiled, mischievous. “Who knows? Maybe I’d kill both of you anyway.” His smile dropped again to be replaced by a very serious look altogether. “Now clean this up and get out of my house.”

He paused as he passed by the body, crouching down and taking out the man’s wallet. He took the cash out of it, giving the watching capos a wink. “He owes me a new bottle of grappa, don’t you think.”

He left with a skip to his step, going to the nearest bathroom - there were five in the house - and washing his face and hands thoroughly. He changed out of his shirt and into a fresh one, rolling the sleeves up around his elbows, leaving the collar open a comfortable amount, as he was inclined to do. He turned the signet ring around a few times on his little finger, watching it from under his lashes. It was relatively new, as signet rings went. Only a few decades old. Then again, their family had been nothing when it first arrived in America. They hadn’t had need for a crest back then.

He took the ring off, looking closely as the bull’s head pressed into the gold. His grandfather had chosen a bull for a few reasons; it symbolized strength, perseverance, and fertility. Male fertility. Their line was strong. Ricky gritted his teeth, not looking away from it. He knew he wouldn’t have children. Ever. But he had nieces and nephews and he’d pass it all to them when the time came. _But what are you going to tell everyone?_ his sister would ask. _I’ll tell them the truth_ , he’d reply, _and God help them if they don’t like it._

He slipped the ring back on and gave himself one last look in the mirror before going back outside. He went to the back garden, where he could hear splashing by the pool and children laughing. His sister was over with her kids, twin girls and a boy, five and seven respectively. They shrieked in delight when they saw him coming.

“ _Zio_ Ricky!”

He grinned at them, crouching down as they got closer. They swamped him instantly, giggling and laughing and hanging on as he straightened back up, one around each leg and the boy around his neck. He didn’t care that they were in their little swimsuits and soaked from the pool. He stumbled dramatically. 

“Oh you’re too strong! I can’t go on!” He teetered near the pool, plucking his nephew from around his neck and holding him out at arm’s length. “But if I fall, you fall with me!”

He tossed him into the pool, and the child laughed as children do whenever they’re chucked around with abandon. He went to grab one of his nieces, and they fled, and he was still bent over when his sister appeared beside him and shoved him fully-clothed into the pool, crying dramatically about saving her children from this monster. Ricky spluttered to the surface, pushing his dark hair back off his face as he laughed.

“Izzy, you idiot.” He let his nephew paddle over to hold onto him in the deep water. “You come to my house and I give you shelter and I give you food and this is how you treat me?”

She grinned, picking up one of her dark-haired daughters. The whole family had dark hair and dark eyes and were a bit on the shorter side. They also had a flaring temper, but his sister seemed to have avoided this gene. He swam over to the edge of the pool, folding his arms on it.

“How’s the old man?”

She pulled a face. “Still going downhill.”

“Mom’s still with him?”

“Yeah.” She encouraged her daughters to go and play in the pool, waiting for Ricky to climb out before continuing. “It’d be good for her to get away from his bedside. She’s wasting away in there.”

He plucked at his wet shirt, his face pensive. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. And I know you’re busy, with dad being out of action, but I don’t know what to do with her.” She waved her hands freely as she talked. “She doesn’t want to go shopping. She doesn’t want to come over for dinner. She doesn’t want to do this or do that and I’m a bit stuck, you understand?”

He pushed a hand through his wet hair, thinking about it. “Let me go dry off and then we’ll talk about it, yeah?”

“Sure.”

He had just gotten changed for the third time that evening when he was caught in the hallway by another capo, a woman he was certain was to be his consigliere when the time came. He raised a dark eyebrow at her face. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I have some news.” Fran nodded towards his office, hidden away under the curved sweeping stairs. “Got a few minutes?”

He nodded, leading the way. He closed the door behind her, and she was sitting and had a cigarette lit by the time he’d opened the windows to air the place out. He liked her, he always had. She was quick to the point and didn’t get involved in sugar-coating things. He sat down in his high-backed leather chair, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette of his own. He spoke on the exhale.

“Well, what’s the latest?”

“From the Feds,” she said. “Apparently they’re stocking up. Got eyes on us.”

“And the other families?”

“Got eyes on them too, but what’s important is us.” She tapped her cigarette into the glass ashtray between them. “They’re making up a team, so we’ve been told. Few of the usual, but a new guy too.”

Ricky gave her a level look. “And how certain are you that this is true.”

“The canary sang it straight to me, boss.”

His gaze flickered back to her, sharp. “Don’t go using that term too soon. My old man’s not dead yet.”

He got to his feet, moving to the drinks. He raised his eyebrows at her, gesturing with the bottle. She nodded. He poured two small glasses of liquor before topping it with soda. The bubbles made a pleasant fizzing noise. He dropped two cubes of ice into each, watching them split on impact.

“What of the usual are on the team.”

“Banjo himself. Holly. And a new guy, Tinsley.”

“Right. And what do you have on him.”

She shrugged, turning the gold bracelet on her wrist; it shone against her black skin. “Nothing much. I had a guy follow him for a few blocks earlier but he didn’t really… _do_ anything. Pretty quiet and just keeps to himself.”

“Those are the ones to look out for.” Ricky placed her drink in front of her before sitting back down, taking a long drag on his cigarette in a very wise manner altogether. “Do you know why he was recruited?”

“Bit of a mafia fanatic, so I was told. Knows the ins-and-outs.”

Ricky pursed his lips, his gaze lowered, thoughtful. “Find out as much about him as you can - home life, personal life, social life, all of it. Any friends and family, any pets. How liable he is to… negotiate. Come back this time tomorrow.”

She nodded, swallowing the rest of her drink in one before getting to her feet and stubbing out her cigarette. “I'll tail him home.” She paused, hands in her pockets down at her tilted hips. “How’s your dad?”

He looked up at her from under his brows, then looked away. “Not good. I’m going to go see him tomorrow, but mainly just to get my mother away from the bedside. Izzy said she hasn’t left it for the past week or so.”

“Baffling.”

“I know. But love is blind, and all that.” 

She pressed her lips in a sympathetic smile before saying: “ _Ciao,_ Ricky.”

“ _Ciao_.”

He sat in his office for a while then, finishing his drink, slow and steady. He swilled it around in its glass, watching the pale golden liquid as it moved smooth. His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. He lit another cigarette, puffing away until it was half gone before he picked up the phone and dialed the number the potential new associate had given them. It rang a few times before the man answered in his gravelly old voice.

“Jesse Fear, BankAtlantic.”

Ricky exhaled the smoke from his mouth, letting his words roll out with it. “It’s me.”

“Oh. Oh, I-”

“There’s a car outside waiting for you. Dark red Benz. Get in it.”

He hung up. He finished his cigarette before going to check that the body had been cleaned away sufficiently. Then he went back out to the pool for some time with his family before the new associate got here. There was simply no rest for the wicked, it seemed. 

* * *

Tinsley hid the file in his top drawer and locked it. He took his coat from the back of the door and draped it over his arm. He put his bag over his shoulder and left his office and left the station and said a quick hello in passing to the editor of the newspaper across the street before catching a late train home. It was just him and an old woman with a dog that could’ve passed for a particularly hairy rat, and a black woman a carriage down that he could see through the doors. The closer he got to his stop, the more his hands fidgeted. He picked at his thumbnail, watching with his gaze low. He reluctantly got off at his stop. He stood outside the station and lit a cigarette, alone. He smoked it before continuing on. It was a short walk from there to his house, but he always made it the longest, meandering around, kicking a stone along in front of him. He brightened a bit when he saw the lights weren’t on.

The house was empty, which was a relief. He hung his coat up on the rack and put his bag down on the table and set about making dinner. The peace only lasted for a few minutes. He closed his eyes when he heard the key rattling in the door. It rattled for a long time before it managed to do its job. Tinsley gripped the edge of the counter, leaning against it, head hanging. He heard the keys fall to the floor and heard a bit of stumbling. Then his wife came in. She was drunk. She was very drunk. He gave her a long hard look.

“Where were you tonight.”

She shrugged, sloppy, and gave the same answer as always. “Out.”

“How much did you spend this time.”

“Dunno.”

He folded his arms across his chest, watching her plonk herself down in the nearest seat. She almost missed. “You can’t keep doing this. You’re going to have us broke.”

“Well since you love your job _so_ much, even more than your _wife_ , I’m sure you’ll get the money," she sneered. “And maybe your wife wouldn’t have to drink every night if her husband could even touch her in bed, hm?”

He reddened, but decided not to entertain that subject. Not tonight. “That doesn’t mean you can spend all my money. _My_ money. That _I_ earn every day.”

“I’m a woman, I can’t-”

“Oh don’t give me that shit. Every wife on this block has a damn job.”

She pouted, and it wasn’t very cute at all. “I don’t want a job.”

“Yeah, I’m very fucking aware of that.” He glared at her. “I’ll cut you off. I will. If you keep-”

“Then I’ll tell _everyone_ about you,” she slurred. “I’ll tell everyone about you. You’ll lose everything.”

He leaned back against the counter, running his weary hands down his face, letting his fingers rest over his mouth. It was the same conversation. The same conversation they had any time they were in the same room, which was a rare enough occurrence. He turned off the stove. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. He tugged his tie off over his head, moving towards the sitting room.

“I’m sleeping on the couch.”

But before that, he went to the phone and picked it up. He drew Holly’s number out from his head, frowning a tad as he sifted through today’s memories. He spun it in. It was answered within a few rings. She was still awake.

“This is Horsley speaking.”

“Yeah, it’s me. Tinsley.”

“Fantastic. Do you have an answer?”

“Yeah. Yeah, count me in.”

She seemed satisfied with this, and said she’d see him on the morrow. He went to the window to draw the curtains. There was a figure standing across the street, smoke rising from a cigarette, grey against the black night. He stood in the window, a hand on either curtain, watching the figure, and he knew without a doubt that it was watching him back. Goosebumps flooded his skin. Then the cigarette was chucked to the ground, sparks tumbling, and was promptly stood out. The figure wandered off. He waited until they were out of sight. Then he drew the curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _mio amico _\- my friend__   
>  _caro amico _\- dear friend__   
>  _zio _\- uncle__


	2. Press Conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i put som e idiots in a room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i know some italian phrases and exclamations so imma put them in italian just for the Authenticity but when ricky and his fam are actually speaking italian to each other i'm gonna just slap em down in italics

The Mayor was a man of fifty. Fifty years on this earth. For the last thirty of these years, he had been a hitman. The previous twenty, he couldn’t quite remember. He didn’t mind. He hadn’t come from a particularly lavish background. His parents had been loyal to the Garafalo family for a long time, and their parents before them, all the way until their untimely deaths. They had been murdered when he was just a boy. The Garafalo family had taken him away from a povertial life of theft and violence and had placed him into a professional life of theft and violence. He was good at it. He didn’t enjoy it, but no more or no less than any other employee enjoys their job. It was just life.

He closed over the newspaper, checking his watch. He had to meet with a husband and wife from a family that had been getting a bit too big for their boots over the past year. Lucía Garafalo had given him strict instructions from the bedside of her dying husband. It was a simple job. The Mayor was at ease.

He saw the husband and wife go into the diner, leaving two guards at the door. The Mayor placed his newspaper aside and got out of his car and closed it over behind him. He was a recognizable figure; he was tall and neat and he had a tendency to wear only white shirts and black waistcoats and black suit trousers and amid it all a stark red tie, and when needed, his black leather gloves. He went towards the restaurant, and the guards frisked him, albeit hesitantly. He let them. He wasn’t carrying a weapon anyway.

The restaurant was empty but for the husband and wife at the table. He couldn’t quite remember their names. When he sat down they introduced themselves and he still didn’t listen to their names. He wouldn’t need them for long. They offered wine and he refused; he didn’t drink. He explained that he was here on behalf of the Garafalos to hear what their concerns were. They were, of course, about Ricky.

“He’s a sodomite,” said the husband in disgust. “He can’t lead us. I won’t allow it.”

“Ricardo is perfectly capable on every level to lead this _plaza_ ,” replied the Mayor, beginning to get just a whole lot fed up. “And I’m afraid I won’t be commenting on any rumours about his private life.”

“They’re not just rumours,” said the wife, haughty. “And when Lorenzo dies, we won’t be remaining under his leadership. That we can assure you.”

The Mayor heard what he had come to hear. He excused himself to go to the bathroom. In there he found what Lucy had said he would find; a pistol and a silencer duct-taped underneath the toilet roll dispenser in the stall nearest the far wall. He took it out and checked it was loaded and put it into his belt. He washed his hands and dried them, just to make his time in the bathroom seem more believable, before pulling on his black gloves. He observed himself with his pale blue eyes and fixed his tie. Then he went back into the restaurant and shot the husband and wife dead, clean through the back of their skulls. He left through the front door and stopped beside the guards. He ordered them to go home. They didn’t question it. 

He rang Lucy from a payphone. Her butler answered it, and then it was her steely voice that spoke.

"Is it done?"

"Yes, _signora_."

"Good. Good." A sharp exhale. "If this was the 1600s I'd have their heads on pikes outside my walls for all to see. Leave them there all year. But unfortunately that's awfully frowned upon now, isn't it."

"I believe so."

"Dump the bodies outside their homes. I want everyone to know what happens if they challenge my son's leadership."

The Mayor paused. "Do you not think that you might be coddling him a bit?"

"Coddling and protecting are two very different things. Just do what I say."

"Very well."

He hung up the phone and got back into his car and started driving back home. It was an overcast day, but the sun was struggling through.

He lived alone in a small corner apartment, and it was everything he needed. He was lucky. He wasn't Italian on his father's side, only on his mother's. He couldn't speak the language, but he could understand it, and he could read it quite well. He was raised to be more Welsh than Italian, and unfortunately, he looked more Welsh than Italian too. He had blue eyes and fair skin and his hair had greyed entirely. Some of the other families treated him like a traitor because of these characteristics. The Goldsworths didn't. They knew an asset when they saw one, and the Mayor was thankful for this. He wasn't a vengeful man, but when the opportunity was given to him to get rid of someone who had spat on him for years, he found himself grabbing it quite readily. No one can outgrow vengeance, he supposed.

He passed by the Department of Justice building, and it loomed tall and wide and had lights on in its lines and lines of windows day-in day-out. They were working hard in there, just as much as their enemies were. The Mayor lingered at a red light, scowling up at the building. Then he drove on.

* * *

“Put your things down here.” Holly tapped the desk with a hard finger. “This is yours. This is your home for the foreseeable future. You’ll eat at this desk, you’ll drink at this desk, and you’ll bloody sleep at this desk if you have to.”

Tinsley wasn’t too intimidated. He’d slept at his desk many a time before. He put down his box of things, which consisted of a few books and a notepad or two and some pens he was fond of and a mug that he had a liking for. It was a nice warm beige and the inside was white. Or, it had been white. It was stained by the hundreds of coffees he had made in it since first buying it. He put it on the desk first with a satisfied smile. It was the equivalent to hanging up a _Home, Sweet Home_ sign in a kitchen.

“You know Banjo,” said Holly, nodding towards the chief. “He works closely with us on such large investigations. And this is Darla. She’ll be your secretary.”

Tinsley looked at the woman at the desk by the door. She was positively lounging in her chair, legs crossed, a book in hand. She gave him a look, but not a smile. However, she managed not to seem unfriendly. Just different. Holly moved on quite swiftly.

“I am the supervisor for this hall,” she announced, striding to the table at the top of the room and dumping her bag down on it. She turned with her arms folded. “That means that although I have weekends off, I am _always_ on call. And they had the cheek to call it a promotion.” She snorted. “Now, at the beginning of every week, I decide who is going to be on call with me. This week it’s you, Tinsley. Congratulations.” She gave him a look. “Do you have a first name?”

“Uh, Charlie.”

“No. That’s too soft. You’ll be Tinsley.” That was that. “Every morning until ten I will be available to sign overtime slips, review search warrants, court orders, and so on and so forth. That is, if there hasn’t been trouble the night before. This territory is most active between ten at night and three in the morning. Get ready for many late shifts. You will be locating and interviewing witnesses, re-canvassing the crime scene for additional witnesses or evidence, booking evidence, searching through criminal records, and meeting with other law enforcement officers who have expertise in the area where the crime occurred. All in all, you will be very busy, there will be many long days, end of watch will never be what it was scheduled to be, and you will _not_ complain.” She strode forwards in her sensible patent leather shoes, arms still folded. “Any questions?”

“Yeah.” Tinsley continued taking his stuff from his box and laying it out on the desk. “I’ve never done any press conference work before.”

“That’s fine, I’ll be doing the talking. You will just sit and look reliable.” She pushed her wire framed glasses up along her nose. “And straighten up. There’s no need to try and look small. It doesn’t work anyway.”

Tinsley pressed his lips in a line. “Uh, sure. Will do.”

“Darla, tell Tinsley what you’re here for,” said Holly, giving her a sidelong scowl. “Before I forget.”

Darla gave her a flat look before placing her book aside and speaking in a monotone. “I will take your phone calls. I will type up your dictations. I will send letters for you. I will get you coffee. I-”

“That’s fine,” said Tinsley. “I like making my own coffee.”

“You'll be too busy to make your own coffee.” Holly checked her watch, going back to her desk and picking up her bag. “Now we have to go. The conference is starting in an hour.”

There was someone waiting for them when they arrived. She was relatively short, and she was dressed to the nines in a long coat with fur trim around the collar, and a pair of leather gloves. Her hair was in a neat updo, quite glamorous altogether. She smiled when she saw them coming, striding down the path in her heels. She extended a hand to Holly, who reluctantly shook it.

“Ms Horsley, it’s been a while.”

Holly retracted her hand. “Yes. Suspiciously.” She looked over her shoulder at Tinsley. “Tinsley, this is Lucía Goldsworth.”

He had only a split second to realize that this was _the_ Lucía Goldsworth. The criminal. Just out in the open, like a normal citizen.

“Just call me Lucy, please.” She shook his hand too, and for a moment, she owned it. “My, you’re a big man.”

Tinsley resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “So I’ve been told.” _Often_.

“How is Lorenzo doing?” asked Holly, both hands holding the strap of the bag over her shoulder. “We’ve heard that he’s not too well.”

Lucy gave her a hard look. “And where did you hear that news, might I ask.”

“I hear every sort of news, Mrs Goldsworth.”

“Well Lorenzo is doing just fine.”

“Oh, that’s great.” Holly looked over Lucy’s shoulder. Then she turned and looked over her own shoulder. “He decided not to show today, did he?”

“He’s busy. I’ve come in his stead.”

Holly looked at her, unsmiling. “That’s a great shame indeed.”

“I think it’s a greater shame,” said Lucy stonily. “That there is a need for a police press conference about my family. I’m quite insulted.”

“I apologize to the moon and back.”

Lucy suddenly stepped forwards so that their faces were inches apart, and her eyes were dark and threatening. “Remember, if there is anything I think you need, rest assured that I won’t hesitate to give it to you.”

Holly didn’t respond for a moment. Then she smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Lucy. I’ll make sure to let all my colleagues know who is responsible for any gestures - kind or otherwise - given to me.”

Lucy’s lip curled somewhat. She looked Holly up and down, disdainful. “Your outfit is hideous.” Then she turned away and strode into the building without looking back.

Tinsley finally relaxed, his eyes widening. “Well jeez, what was that about?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the phrase ‘behind every great man is a greater woman’.” She was already moving into the building, talking over her shoulder. “That applies to the Goldsworth family too. Lucy has ruled that roost since the beginning, and the only thing that stopped her from taking over entirely is the fact that she’s a woman. And-”

They stopped short as a passing civilian suddenly spat at them, hissing a curse or two before continuing on. Holly didn’t seem too disturbed.

“Get used to that,” she said coolly. “The Goldsworth family are actually regarded quite highly by the community. People won’t be happy that we’re disrupting them.”

“Right.” Tinsley looked back over his shoulder at the spitter storming away. “Have you ever interviewed any of them?”

"Who? The Goldsworths?"

"No. The people."

She shrugged. “What’s the point?”

“Well they must be getting fed some sort of propaganda, right?”

She slowed, looking up at him. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.” A pause. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, perhaps bandwagon. Follow the herd. _À la mode_. You know, like how women are encouraged not to leave the house without make-up."

"Oh, I know very much." She liked the way he talked; he was soft-spoken, but clear. "Go on."

"Or maybe the generality side. A bit of 'we understand you, we will help you'. There's probably a lot of bad-talk about law enforcement, but I suppose that goes without saying." He moved his hands in his coat pockets in such a manner that the end of the coat gave a little flap. " _Ad nauseam_ is probably a factor. Plays to familiarity. Do the family make public appearances a lot?"

Holly nodded, quite intrigued. "Very frequently, and _always_ at press conferences."

"Then that's another way. They show their faces a lot, and they're familiar. People will feel comfortable with them."

"How do you know all this?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I read a lot."

"Hm." Her grey eyes flickered over his face, approving. She started walking again, hearing his slow gait behind her. "Then keep reading, Tinsley. Keep reading."

* * *

Lucy strode over to the seats along the back of the room. Ricky was there already, sat back with his legs crossed, a cigarette in hand. He looked at her as she sat down, in that somewhat snotty manner that he had gotten from his father, chin tilted up.

"Where did you go?"

Lucy smiled at him, opening her bag on her lap with a click and retrieving her own cigarette tin. It was designer, personalized. "Just to the washroom, my love. And I thought I asked you to wear a tie."

"You did." He watched the press filing in, and saw the few turned heads, and a few clicks of a few shy cameras. "This is ridiculous, mamma. I hate this."

"It's necessary to show your face in times of trouble." She gripped his hand, tightly. "We must never show weakness, and we must never show division within the family. You understand how important that is."

"Yes."

"If I had turned up here alone, there would have been rumours."

He scowled as another camera flashed at him. "I know."

"And smile, my love." She gave his cheek a fond pinch. "You weren't only blessed with brains, but you were blessed with looks. Use them." She reached into her bag and withdrew a dark tie. "And put this on. I knew you wouldn't wear one."

He sighed in exasperation, buttoning his collar up before turning up the sides and wrapping the tie around. His eyes went sharp, looking at something across the room. "Who's that with Holly? Is it the new man?"

"Yes, I believe so. Tinsley. Homicide detective from when he was twenty-two, married the same year, parents died in a crash the following year. He was rumoured to be the next chief, but was promptly snapped up by Holly Horsley only three day ago."

Ricky stared at her, finishing his tie with a firm yank. "When did you learn all of that?"

She smiled, giving his hand another squeeze. "I was just keeping an eye out, my love."

Ricky looked back at the new detective. He wasn't exactly hard to spot amid the crowd, and he looked a tad uncomfortable surrounded the way he was. After he'd shaken hands and smiled and introduced himself, he seemed content to just stand beside Holly, his quiet eyes scanning the room from behind his glasses. A human watchtower. Ricky stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray beside him, exhaling the smoke through his nose. He spoke sidelong to Lucy, not looking away from the cops.

"How did you get Banjo to do what you asked?"

"When?"

"At the start."

Lucy shrugged, busy checking her nails, just as they're taught in the movies. "I just charmed him. Your father was pretty useless at that. Wives can be useful more often than not, Ricky."

He closed his eyes. "Not now."

"I'm simply-"

"I said not now!"

She scowled at the harsh tone, muttering: " _Mannaggia a Te._ "

Ricky sat back in a huff, arms folded. " _I'm not listening to you right now. There's too many people_."

" _You never listen to me anyway._ "

He raised his hands to the heavens in exasperation. " _So why do you insist on bringing up this subject whenever we-_ "

" _I'm looking out for my son!_ " she said with a sharp cutting motion, the rings glittering on her fingers. " _That is all! I-_ "

" _Oh shut up, ma. It's starting_."

She gave him a sharp slap on the arm. " _Excuse me? Did you just tell me to shut up? I should smack some sense into-"_

"They're looking," hissed Ricky out of the corner of his mouth, rubbing ruefully at his arm. "Just be quiet, mamma. Please."

" _Well I don't know why. We aren't being loud_."

" _Ma, please_."

She clicked her tongue behind her teeth. " _Fine_." She scowled at the stage. " _It's just that stunata, Horsley, and her cronies. And you know what they will talk about. They'll say we're all greasy immigrants who chose to get involved in organized crime as if we weren't treated like shit on their shoes since we moved here._ " Another tut. " _She won't mention how we had no choice_."

Holly stood at the podium, smoothing down her suit jacket, waiting for the murmuring of the crowd to die down. Well, murmuring from some and loud arguing from others. She gave the two Goldsworths a lingering look. Lucy was lighting another cigarette. Holly hoped that one day they'd kill her stone dead. She cleared her throat and faced the crowd, which had finally gone entirely quiet.

"Good morning. My name is Holly Horsley. I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, specifically related to mafia activity. I'm in charge of stopping activity on this territory." She spoke clear and crisp and without any flowery phrases. "Activities that were only recently specified to the smuggling and selling of alcohol during Prohibition. This has now ended. From here on out, the activity will worsen, and branch on, and on."

Tinsley sat beside Banjo and twiddled his thumbs as he pretended to listen. He knew all this already. He'd listened to her practice and read and re-read the speech earlier this morning. His eyes drifted across the watching faces, and he was relieved to see that none of them were looking back at him. Apart from one, a man with shrewd black eyes and a thick head of black curly hair who was sitting with his arms folded and legs crossed. Perhaps Tinsley wasn't the only one who didn't want to be here. He checked his watch again, looking down his pointy nose at it. When he lifted his gaze, the black-eyed man was still watching him. Tinsley's brows drew together a tad in confusion before he noticed the woman beside the man. It was Lucy Goldsworth. Which made the man himself a certain son and heir. Tinsley averted his gaze quickly. He wasn't interested in becoming involved in a stare-down, and he didn't want to go about making enemies too early either. So he kept his head relatively ducked, and watched him from under his brows. Ricky Goldsworth didn't look away once. It went on like this for quite a while.

Holly wrapped up with her usual record-quick efficiency. She raised an eyebrow at the crowd. "Any questions for me or my colleagues about the issues discussed?"

A dainty hand shot up instantly. It was Lucy Goldsworth. "Excuse me, I have a question."

"As you usually do," said Holly dryly over the murmuring of the crowd.

"Who funded the high school that was built just off Main last year?" Lucy smiled wide, innocent. "Beautiful finishing. Very modern. Whoever was involved in the design simply had wonderful taste."

Holly fixed her with a flat look. "We all know the answer already, Mrs Goldsworth."

"Well then who paved the roads in Elmswood?" Lucy got to her feet, smoothing her coat down. "The ones that were in wicked condition for years, cracked beyond use. Who funded the paving?"

Tinsley observed the crowd; they were all looking quite pleased. Lucy went on.

"And the dreadful flooding only two years ago," she almost wept, an actress through and through. "Who funded and ensured the transportation of supplies, of food and clean water and healthcare? Who who who who _who_." Her face had grown harder, her voice louder, but it softened again into a smile when she reached the top of the crowd. "Who, Ms Horsley? I'm waiting."

Holly looked at her over her glasses. "The same family that murdered an entire wedding party in May."

Lucy wrinkled her nose mischievously. "You can't prove that." She turned to face the conference. "But what doesn't need proof is the fact that it has been _my_ family that has kept this community on its feet. _My_ family that has provided protection when times were at their most desperate, that has looked out and cared for the families and the children and the elderly. _My_ family that has saved lives, _my_ family that has stepped forwards and aided the people in times of crisis." She looked back over her shoulder up at Holly. " _Not_ law enforcement."

Holly gritted her teeth at the round of applause, her eyes raising to the heavens. Lucy's voice carried on.

"And it's _my_ family that is funding the opening of the new public library in two week's time. Not the government, and certainly not the government-run Federal Bureau of Investigation." She smiled right back at the smiling faces. "Because we're known as the Goldsworths for a reason, and it's because our word is worth gold. Simple as that."

TInsley raised his head as the crowd applauded again. It was more like a presidential debate than anything else. He couldn't help it. He did what he had told himself he wouldn't do, and opened his mouth.

"Did you know that almost three hundred people have died this year already in gun-related crimes?" His gaze remained steady as Lucy's head whipped around to stare at him like he was a dog that had suddenly started talking perfect English. "And more than half of them in gang-related violence. Can I ask you, Mrs Goldsworth, from where you receive all your money? Entirely unrelated, of course."

She continued staring during the silence. "May I ask who in the world you are?"

"Detective Tinsley."

"And you can answer the question whenever you're ready, Lucy," said Holly from the podium, seeming just a bit pleased.

Lucy hadn't blinked for the past few minutes. "My husband is a businessman, as we all know already."

"In what industry?" asked Tinsley, shifting his glasses up along his nose as he watched her. "And in what position? Or perhaps that would be a question better suited for the heir to this mystery business, hm?"

The heads in the room turned to the heir in question. Ricky Goldsworth seemed about as bothered as a man who'd just gotten to the climax of a book and had been called to dinner. He pushed himself to his feet with a roll of his big black eyes and strolled up the aisle to join his mother. He walked with a swagger, using his hips a lot. He gave Tinsley a lingering look over his shoulder as he turned to face the crowd, not too friendly. He spoke with a voice like velvet - smooth when rubbed one way, rough when rubbed the other.

"It doesn't matter what I say. It doesn't matter what my mother says. These cops will pick apart every single word until they have a reason to cause trouble for us. That's how it's always been." His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. "My father is ill, as you all know. He's very ill." He looked over his shoulder at Tinsley with eyes that could've butchered a cow at fifty paces. "And I'm not going to slander his memory before he's even gone."

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd. Tinsley sat back and folded his arms, tucking his fingers behind his braces, knowing not to push it now. These two played to the emotions of the people, and they played well. Banjo shuffled his feet beside him, looking just a whole lot anxious. His moustache twitched erratically before he tottered over to the podium and announced that refreshments would be available for the next half-hour. Tinsley got to his feet, smoothing down his tie as Holly came towards him.

"Is that it?"

"That's always it. Lucy turns up and derails the entire damn thing. The people love her." She tutted, picking up her dark red bag and slipping it over her shoulder. "It's sickening. Now come on. One of the hyenas is waiting."

Tinsley followed her gaze, and yes, Lucy Goldsworth was waiting at the bottom of the small wooden stairs. He wouldn't have exactly put her and her son down as hyenas. Maybe lions. Or tigers. Some sort of big cat, anyway. They had the same fierce eyes. He didn't want to find out if they had the same teeth, though. He excused himself to go to the bathroom, hopping down off the side of the podium just so he could avoid Lucy. He always told himself not to make enemies, but he couldn't seem to help it.

He made a beeline for the bathrooms, and when he closed the door behind him the world disappeared. He closed his eyes to relax for a second.

"What are you doing."

He opened his eyes again, finding the mirror, and the reflection it held from around the corner. Ricky Goldsworth stood by the sinks, water dripping from his hands. His eyes were narrowed. Tinsley straightened up off the door, and he seriously considered turning tail and fleeing. It didn't seem that he was being given the choice. The footsteps were getting closer, and Ricky's reflection was getting bigger, and then the real thing came around the corner. Tinsley stared down at him, at his angelic face, a cruel trick. Ricky raised his dark eyebrows, impatient.

"Take a damn picture already, or move."

"Oh, right. Sorry."

Tinsley stepped aside and for some reason opened the door like a true gentleman. The shorter man gave him a puzzled look, his brows drawing together, his mouth open a tad. The silence was painful. Ricky gave him a lingering look as he slowly stepped through the door and continued on. Tinsley closed the door after him, feeling his face burning. Oh, he really was a fool sometimes.

* * *

"He seemed a real _bischero_ , mamma. Did I tell you he held the door open for me? Like I was a ladyfriend."

"No, no, he can't be as daft as he seems," said Lucy, closing her pocket mirror with a decisive _click._ "Holly doesn't hire fools. And you heard him during the conference. He's not as meek as he looks."

"I didn't think he looked meek. He just looked... I don't know. Sleepy."

"Well at least he wore his tie properly," said Lucy with a sidelong look at where her son's tie was now off his neck and around his fingers instead. "And had his collar done right. He was neat and tidy."

Ricky rolled his eyes. "Neat and tidy means uncomfortable."

"And you need to shave," she barged on, placing her finger under his chin. "You know the rules, _cucciolo_. Everyone has to be clean-shaven. That's how it is everywhere."

"Lorenzo has a moustache."

"He's your father, Ricardo. Call him papa, just like you call me mamma, yes?"

Ricky ignored her, turning his head towards the window. "I don't have time to visit him today."

"He's your father. You will visit him."

Ricky scowled out the window, arms folded tight across his chest. He didn't bother replying. Lucy repeated her words.

"He's your _father_. He-"

"Oh, is he? I never realized."

"Don't start this now."

Ricky continued his scowling. His mother was not one who ever considered backing down. Sometimes it was useful, sometimes it was not. This time, it was the latter.

The car pulled up to the gates and a guard waved them by. They drove down the long driveway, through the trees and foliage, and a bird or two passed overhead. It was all delightfully picturesque. Ricky scowled at it. The car circled the fountain in the middle of the drive and parked outside the doors. The chauffeur opened the door and Ricky stepped out, his mother following after him. Lucy put her arm through his as they went up to the door, which was also opened for them. Ricky wasn't too fond of this. He preferred to open his own doors.

The guards at the front door said that Don Garafalo was in the botanic garden. Lucy split away to get herself some tea, leaving Ricky to go alone. On purpose, he didn't doubt. A punishment of sorts for the fact he hadn't bothered to visit in weeks. He uncuffed his sleeves and rolled them up as he headed along the smooth paved path to the greenhouse. He opened the door and stepped into a slow oven. The hot air was thick, wet, steamy, heavy with the suffocating smell of tropical orchids in bloom. The glass walls and roof were heavily misted and big drops of moisture splashed down onto the plants, and onto Ricky too. He pulled a face as he moved further into the jungle. It had always been his father's favourite spot in the home. He himself had always despised it. The light was greenish, like through an aquarium tank, and he felt as slimy as a fish.

He found his way to the clearing at the centre, under the domed roof. There, a Turkish rug was laid out, and on the rug a rickety wheelchair, and in the wheelchair a rickety man. Old, obviously dying. He watched Ricky come towards him, but it didn't seem that he was seeing him. Ricky didn't want to admit it, but he found his father's appearance quite repulsive now. His face looked like a mask, and his lips were bloodless, and his temples were sunken. Even in the heat, he was wrapped in a thick rug. Ricky already considered him dead. He'd always been dead to him.

Ricky didn't know what to do with himself. He hated not knowing what to do. He went to the low table beside the wheelchair and picked up the jug of water and poured a glass, and it was warm and thick as syrup. He swallowed it nonetheless.

" _Smoke_."

Ricky turned his head at the feeble word. He tutted, taking out a cigarette and handing it to the frail fingers that reached. He had to light it for him too. His father nodded once, like his neck was afraid of the weight of his head.

" _You can go._ "

Ricky inhaled deeply through his nose. " _You didn't even want me to visit, did you_."

" _I'm in my last days_." His father used his voice carefully, like any second he'd be too weak to be able to open his mouth again. " _No one wants to be reminded of their disappointments in their last days."_

Ricky's eyes fluttered at this, his throat working. " _Why would you say that. Why would you bother saying that now."_

 _"I should've had another son,"_ grumbled Lorenzo. " _Isabella should have been a man, and you a woman, to cook and clean and rear the children."_

Ricky's jaw clenched, his eyes growing watery. He wiped at them with the back of his hand, furiously. He sniffed a few times, not trusting himself to speak yet. His father watched him, and even though his face was heavy as a mask, Lorenzo's sneer was somehow still clear as day. He had always been a master of the sneer. Ricky stood in front of him, fists clenched, his unlit cigarette crunched up in one. He looked down his nose at his father.

" _I am your son. Your only son in this world. When you die, all that was yours will be mine."_ He crouched down in front of him, elbows on his knees, looking up at Lorenzo's thin face from below his brows. " _I hope you never forget that. I hope you're rolling in your grave for eternity."_

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and Ricky saw just the barest flicker of approval in his father's eyes. His approval didn't mean much to him. The only times Lorenzo was approving of him were the times that left Ricky guilt-ridden for days. The leaves to their left rustled, and Lucy strode into the clearing.

"Oh, is my timing bad?" She advanced regardless, a glass of cool water in her hand. "What were you discussing?"

"Nothing." Ricky straightened up, pushing a hand through his dark hair. It was beginning to dampen with the heavy heat. "I'm going home, I have to discuss that opening with Fear. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Ricky." She sounded strict, hands on her hips. "Kiss your father on the cheek before you go."

Ricky hesitated, shuffling an inch on the spot. He looked at her sidelong, silently pleading. It was Lorenzo who saved them from the potential painful encounter in the end.

"No," he muttered. "What he has might be infectious."

Ricky's breathing jumped, his eyes beginning to water yet again. They burned with angry tears, blurring the image in front of him. He pressed his lips in a line and stormed out of the greenhouse, and he was glad that that would be the last time he would ever see his father. Lucy stared after him with sorrow.

"Oh, Lorenzo. You were always so harsh on him."

"So? That's what he needed. I thought it would cure him, but apparently not."

Lucy stared at the side of his face, her eyes blank. She placed a hand on his bony shoulder. "Dinner is about to be served. I'll bring you inside."

She took hold of the handles of his chair and started wheeling him. Usually she would be in quite a fluster before dinner, but now she didn't need to be. He was dying on his own by now, although it had taken a while. She had started poisoning his food well over a year ago. Just a little at a time was the trick. A drop in his wine. A sprinkle in his sauce. As much as she could without provoking a suspicious onslaught of symptoms. She wheeled him slowly through the garden towards the house, breathing in the fresher, cleaner air outside. It was a beautiful evening.

* * *

“The Goldsworths are both the most cunning yet the most honorable family I’ve ever met. If you treat them good, they’ll treat you better. But if you treat them bad, they’ll treat you worse. Much worse. They’ll do things you couldn’t possibly imagine.” Holly went to the first photograph on the slide, the projector whirring. “The wedding party I mentioned at the conference. The Alfonsi’s. They stopped sharing their profits, and that crossed the line. Lorenzo ordered a hit. Every family member present was murdered, slaughtered like animals.” The next image flickered up. “Charles Ricci. Guess what he did.”

Tinsley observed the picture on the wall, the man slumped sideways in his car, a pool of blood black around his head. “I don’t know.”

“He accidentally interfered with one of the many schemes Lorenzo had in the works. Completely unknowing. And now he’s dead.” She pressed her lips in a line. “Sometimes staying ignorant of this family is just as dangerous as becoming involved with them. It’s all a trap.”

The next image appeared, and Tinsley raised a hand to his mouth. “Good God.”

“No such thing.” Holly couldn’t look away from the photo either. “Luca was found in the attic of a cottage out in the Catskills. And I’ll tell you, he wasn’t known for missing an eye and three fingers. They also found a dead canary in his mouth.” She looked at Tinsley. “What do you think that meant?”

Tinsley swallowed before speaking. “He was an informant.”

“Yes. He was.” She looked back at the picture, her gaze hard. “And he was a good one. I was his direct contact.” She took a quiet breath. “The worst thing you can do with any of these people is get to know them, Tinsley. Someone will get hurt. Badly.”

Tinsley still hadn’t looked away from the photo. “Who ordered that one?”

“Well, Lucy has always been one for symbolism,” said Holly dryly. She turned the dial on the projector, bringing up the next image. “This one _was_ a whole body. All we found was an arm and a leg. Never found the head.”

Tinsley fidgeted with the end of his tie, his knee bouncing. This was all becoming quite grim indeed. “Who was he?”

“Isabella Goldsworth’s ex-husband, we suspect. They act like he never existed. Rumour got out that he was abusing her. Rumour must have had some truth to it.” She folded her arms. “Word has it that Ricardo carried that one out himself.”

Tinsley thought back to their encounter in the bathroom. He walked right past a cold-blooded murderer. He held a door open for a cold-blooded murderer. “Do the family get hands-on a lot?”

“No. No, just Ricky, we think. Some members call him the Reaper behind his back. As in, the Grim Reaper.” She changed panels in the projector. “Let’s get down to the main villains, shall we? This is, as you know already, Lucy Goldsworth. A bit younger, but we haven’t had any other mugshots since.”

“Oh.” Tinsley observed the photo. “She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes. A real siren. And this is her daughter, Isabella. She has three children, a boy called Lorenzo and twin girls called Mia and Marta. She seems the most stable out of the family, and keeps low most of the time, though I have no doubt she’s done her fair share of dubious activities.” Holly skipped to the next photo. “Ricardo. You wouldn’t look at a cherub and guess it’s a demon, would you. But there he is.”

Tinsley stared at the darling face in silence for a minute, pausing in fidgeting with his tie. Now that he was actually looking at the man’s face directly, he realized that he was ridiculously good-looking. It was almost a joke. There was simply no way a person so beautiful could harm even a fly, could harm even a hair on someone’s head. A person so beautiful could only be on this planet to love and be loved. Tinsley rested his elbow on the desk beside him, his fingers soft over his mouth. Holly went through a few more; an uncle or three, an aunt, a second cousin once removed, a grandmother.

“She is simply referred to as Nonnina,” said Holly, straightening up off the desk with her arms folded. “Or the Oddmother. A play on Godfather.”

“Oh? Why so?”

“After her husband - who was the Godfather at the time - died, Nonnina Goldsworth was the only one who had all the information the FBI wanted. So she played senile, and it worked for a long time. We all thought she was gone with the wind.” Holly tutted. “Turns out she was fine. Now she’s disappeared and we haven’t found her since.”

“Will she be at her son’s funeral?”

“That’s the hope. And that’s why we’re going when the time comes.” She turned off the projector with a firm click. “These streets have become a playground for this family. I’ll do what I can to stop it.”

The phone rang. Darla put out a lazy hand and picked it up. "Yeah? Yeah, I'll put them through now. Bear with me."

She transferred the call to Tinsley's phone, and he picked it up. He listened and jotted down what he deemed important in a notepad. Then he said goodbye and hung up. Holly looked at him expectantly.

"It's a double-hit at that diner across the river," he said, getting to his feet and tearing off the piece of paper from the notepad. "Man and wife from one of the families."

"One of the families? Which one?"

"They can't tell. The bullets went through the backs of their heads and blew their faces clean off, by the sounds of things."

Holly was already halfway towards the door. "Well let's hope we can identify them some other way. Come on. Hurry. A detective's biggest enemy is time, after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also i automatically almost made the mayor call lucy "ma'am" and then i was like wait no  
> the old mayor can't come to the phone right now
> 
> lil translations:  
>  _plaza_ \- square (in mafia terms it means territory)  
>  _mannaggia a te_ \- equivalent to "for god's sake"  
>  _bischero_ \- fool  
>  _cucciolo_ \- pet / dear  
>  _Nonnina_ \- Nanny / Granny


	3. An Attempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil bit short but fun stuff happens

The bodies were slumped over on a table. The blood around their heads was congealed. The waiter standing by the door looked sick to his stomach; he was the one who had found the bodies and called the cops. Tinsley and Holly stood back and allowed the forensics team to go about their business. She eventually said: "The man's wearing a signet ring. We'll know who he is."

"Do they all wear signet rings?"

"The majority. These families are very into their symbolism." She scrutinized the scene with her shrewd grey eyes. "Sometimes to such an extent that it's an advantage for us."

A man from the forensics team stopped beside them, glaring at her. "What are you doing here? This is a crime scene, lady."

She clenched her teeth, giving him a frosty look. Then she just settled on taking out her ID and showing him. The man just shook his head like the world was one big joke nowadays, and continued on. Holly put her ID away, and took a calming breath, letting it out slowly. Tinsley looked down at his shoes, scuffing the heel of one off the ground, repetitive.

"Do you get that a lot?"

"More often than I care for."

"I'm sorry."

She threw him a sidelong look. "You're not part of the problem, I think."

"Oh, I try not to be. I don't- I don't fraternize a lot, I suppose."

"Mm." She looked him over with the same scrutiny as she'd looked at the crime scene. "I like you, Tinsley. It's pleasing to have someone who's not a total buffoon on my team."

He smiled. It was an almost feminine smile, lips together, quite bashful, dainty, even. "Thanks."

The forensics team cleared out from a section, and Holly and Tinsley moved in. She observed the signet ring and deduced that it was a serving family for the Goldsworths. Since the restaurant had been empty, it was most likely an organized meeting turned ugly. No sign of the murder weapon, but the bullets would be investigated later. Holly studied and poked around and got close. She had always been very good at piecing bits together. She had to be very good. In fact, she had to be the best, so she was. She looked over her shoulder, and TInsley was gone. She could see his tall figure wandering across the room, meandering, studying everything with his quietly observant eyes. He went into the kitchens. A few minutes later he went into the bathrooms. He didn't come out for a while, so she decided to follow.

He was in a stall at the far end. She could see his feet under the door. "Tinsley? Are you okay?"

"Oh, yes. The door is open. Come and have a look at this."

She edged it open and slipped in beside him, and it was only then she truly appreciated his size. He was a lot more broad-shouldered than his behaviour would suggest. She was quite squashed against the wall beside him. "Well? What is it?"

"Tape under the dispenser. Odd."

She had a look herself. "Extremely odd. I wonder what it was holding."

"Drugs? A weapon?"

"It could have been either." She smiled at him before beginning to jot down the details in her notebook. "Good spot, detective."

They moved back out to the main restaurant and continued their work. They chatted as they did so, threw theories about, debunked some, fleshed out others. They worked quite well together, Holly thought. Perhaps she would have Tinsley on call more often.

"The Goldsworths are changing leaders," she said from the other side of the table. "There's always some murders in the run-up to such an event. Not usually so early, though."

"Perhaps they don't want a new leader," suggested Tinsley, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he looked at the dead bodies. "Perhaps that's the issue."

"You saw Ricardo at the conference. The people around here are very fond of him." She raised an eyebrow. "Especially the women."

"I'd say so," he murmured. "Strange, isn't it."

"No, I wouldn't say so. He's very handsome."

"Oh, there's no question about that," said Tinsley, raising his head. "No, it's strange that he's almost thirty, yet isn't married. And from what I've read about him, he's never had a long-term relationship. There's no rumours of romance or heartbreak. There's just silence."

Holly nodded with a frown. "Yes. Yes, I suppose that is strange for a man in his position. Especially as continuing the family line is still of great importance to the families."

"It did strike me as odd." Tinsley shrugged his shoulders. "He'd have his pick of every woman in a five-mile radius. So why hasn't he?"

"I suppose I haven't looked into his love life to such an extent."

Tinsley felt his face warm, and he swiftly turned away, appearing casual as he wandered a few steps. "Can't rule anything out, I say."

"But you do think there's conflict regarding Lorenzo's death and Ricky taking over?"

"Just a hunch. I could be wrong entirely."

"But you could be right too." Holly scanned the bloodied table with narrowed eyes. "I have a hunch too. And it's a hunch that is almost always correct."

"Which is?"

"Lucy ordered this. It had her sneaky hands all over it. The duct tape in the bathrooms. The fact they were shot from behind, like an execution. The-"

"How were they shot from behind?" Tinsley jumped on it instantly, his mind whirring. "How did they not see the attacker with the gun?"

Holly caught on without skipping a beat. "Because they didn't think he had one. Because- Because he didn't have one when he walked in."

"The gun was in the bathroom. The gun was planted earlier."

Holly's eyes narrowed again. "Lucy. Without a damn doubt."

"But why?"

"There's something brewing. There's something going awol. She attempted to cut off the head of the snake." Holly was bent over the nearest table, scribbling furiously in her notepad. "Let's get back to the office. I hope you don't mind staying late."

He never minded staying late. Avoiding home was a daily goal for him. He eagerly followed her out to the car. The waiter let them out, and his eyes followed their car until it disappeared around the corner. Then he locked the door and went to the phone.

* * *

"Money makes the world go round, Mr Garafalo. Legal or illegal, good guys, bad guys, everyone chases money. For me, as a banker, it's about budget meetings and pleasing the right people. But for you, getting the money is easy. It's holding onto it that's the problem. Which is where I can help you immensely." He leaned forwards. "I will be able to take your dirty money, and scrub it all clean."

"Go on."

"There are three steps to money-laundering. Placement, layering, and integration." The man who spoke did so with confidence, as he was an expert in this field. "I'd suggest a cash-intensive route for you, Mr Garafalo. And again, I'm honored to be serving you in this way."

Ricky feigned a smile. "Thank you. But I'm afraid you'll have to describe what a cash-intensive route for me is. I'm quite unaware of the finer details, Mr Fear."

"Of course, Mr Garafalo. I-"

"Please, just say Goldsworth. It'll be easier on your tongue."

The banker nodded quickly. He was like a little weasel, and his nose twitched like one. "As you wish, Mr Goldsworth. I do believe your family owns a few businesses? Gentleman's clubs, restaurants, bars, casinos?"

Ricky nodded, chin resting on his fist, eyes bright as he listened to every last word.

"Well that is _perfect,_ Mr Goldsworth." Fear smiled his weasely smile. "The majority of their revenue is in cash. So all you have to do is claim that all cash received is legitimate, and in it goes to the appropriate accounts. It really is one of the most difficult routes for the boys in blue to trace."

Ricky nodded slowly, unfurling his fist so that his fingers were propping his chin up now. "The majority of our money is with family. Off-shore. How would you suggest we transport it."

"Any way you'd like, Mr Goldsworth. Boats, planes, cars. In small enough amounts, no one will think twice."

Ricky observed him with cool eyes. The man was a slimy individual, about Ricky's height but not half as well-built. He had greying hair slicked back, and large spectacles. But he seemed eager to please. Eager for money. Ricky got to his feet, and the banker scrambled to stand up too. Ricky extended a hand.

"It's a pleasure to have you on board, Mr Fear."

Fear took his hand in both, smiling with yellowed teeth from years of cigar smoke. "Pleasure's all mine, sir. All mine."

Ricky waited until the man had been escorted out before taking a handkerchief from his desk and wiping his hand thoroughly. The door was knocked on once, and the knocker stepped in almost instantly, which was something only Francesca had the right to do. 

"We got word from the waiter in Tony's. Double-homicide. Looks like your mother's work."

Ricky's brows shot up. "What? When?"

"Last night, apparently." She stood on the other side of the desk from him, resting her hands on it. "Holly and the new detective only left about ten minutes ago. The waiter overheard them saying that it must have been Lucy, and that there must be some issue with you coming into power."

Ricky straightened up at this, his lips parting. "Did they- Did they suggest any issue in particular?"

"Tinsley remarked on your love life," she said flatly. "Or lack of it. But he dropped it pretty quickly too."

Ricky took a few heavy breaths, his gaze distant. Then he snapped to again. "No. No, I won't have my mother taking the reigns like this. I won't stand for it. I will _not_ stand for it!"

She ducked her head an inch at his sudden shout, frowning. "Relax, would you?"

"This won't do. No, it won't do." He paced around the desk, his voice descending into mutters, Italian. " _She's already gone behind my back. This has to stop now or it will never stop. I need- I need to take control of this situation before she attracts any more attention. Oh, ma, why are you like this."_ He went quiet, his head raising, his gaze sharpening again. He went up to Fran, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Get me Tinsley. Bring him out to the third cottage."

"Now?"

"Whenever he leaves to go home. Snatch him off the street, I don't care how you do it. Just be subtle and be quiet about it." He kissed her on the cheek before giving her shoulder another distracted pat and leaving, quick-haste. " _I don't want needless deaths. I don't want the bloodshed my father provoked."_

_"What if there isn't any other way?"_

He paused in the doorway, speaking over his shoulder. " _Then I'll_ _make another way."_

* * *

Tinsley was making his slow way home. He wasn't quite eager. His wife would probably be out again. Or worse, home, and with various unpleasantries ripe for harvest. He watched the path, kicking a pebble along in front of him. It skimmed in and out of the streetlights. He followed, head down, kicking it again. It stopped at the kerb ahead.

A car pulled up to the corner, blocking the intersection. It was a dark red Benz, flashy, with tinted windows. It sat and growled. Tinsley slowed to a complete halt, straightening up, watching it. He didn’t blink. The car didn’t move. Not an inch.

Tinsley took a casual step back, turning on his heel, and there was a coated figure coming down the path towards him, collar turned up high, hat pulled down low. Their hands were in their pockets. Tinsley turned back around instantly, stepping out onto the quiet road, crossing it with quick sharp steps, throwing a look over his shoulder at the car. It was crawling forwards, over to the path he was now on. Its two left tyres bumped up onto the kerb, rolling towards him, still slow, like a predator. Its headlights gleamed, hiding the driver, and Tinsley raised a hand to shield his eyes, backing away. He turned again, and the coated figure was barely two feet away, and Tinsley took his bag off his shoulder and handed it out towards him. The stranger stopped still, squinting at him. It was a man he didn’t recognize, just as tall and relatively old. Tinsley waved the bag an inch.

“If you’re going to rob me, just take it. But just to let you know, I’m broke and also very boring so there’s nothing exciting in here.” He paused. “Unless you’re fond of Raymond Chandler. There’s a book or two in there.”

“Get in the car.”

Tinsley withdrew the bag, blinking a few times. “What?”

There was an ominous clicking that Tinsley didn’t need to guess the source of. “Get in the car. Back left seat.”

Tinsley held his bag like a lady would hold her purse, his lips pressed in a line. Then he just nodded once, making his way to the car. He sat in and the stranger sat in after him, causing him to be barricaded in the middle seat between the stranger in question and a new stranger on the far seat. Tinsley sat still, bag on his lap. He twiddled his thumbs, his pulse spiking as he felt the car move away off the kerb and whir down the street. The first stranger took off his hat, brushing at the stiff black felt with one hand.

“I am a fan of Chandler, by the way.” He spoke casually, quite calm. “Charming way of writing. Not too descriptive, but just enough.”

Tinsley nodded, unsure of how to reply, or if he even should.

“What’s your favourite?” asked the stranger, looking at him with pale blue eyes. 

Tinsley debated this. “ _The Lady In The Lake_. Yours?”

“ _Farewell, My Lovely._ ”

“Yes, I like that one.”

“It’s very good.” The man held out a black bag towards him. “Do you mind?”

Tinsley took it gingerly. “I, um, I suppose not.” 

He put the bag on over his head before sitting back and linking his hands. His knuckles turned whiter the further they drove. He thought of the arm and leg found in the river. He thought of the man found in a cottage in the Catskills with a missing eye and three missing fingers. He couldn’t get the images out of his mind, and inside a black bag, he might as well have been inside a private projection room. He could feel his chest rising and falling hard, his hands gripping each other hard enough to hurt. They drove and drove and drove.

After some non-stop speeding in a straight line, the vehicle took a turn. Tinsley felt it. He felt it take a few winding roads, and by the time his ears popped there were already beads of sweat on his forehead. They were going up some hills. They were going to a cottage and he was going to be tortured to death. Poor Tinsley, poor Detective Tinsley, barely two days on the job and already a dead man. He sighed heavily.

The car crunched over some gravel and sat still for a few minutes with its engine rumbling. Then it went silent. A car door opened and cool air swept in, brushing over Tinsley in a wave.

“You can take off the bag.”

Tinsley brought it above his eyes slowly, shaking with the pure fear. His gaze darted around what he could see of outside; they were in a clearing of sorts, dense trees all around, and to their left, a cottage. It wasn’t lavish. It was dark wood and had a little porch that was covered on one half. There were lights on in one of the rooms, beaming out the window, throwing the world into black and white. Tinsley took the bag off his head entirely before stepping out after the first stranger. The man took the bag from him and handed it to the second stranger. They didn’t appear to be barbarians. They were simply soldiers under orders. Tinsley stood wringing his hands, and the worry had his face pale and strained. A voice from the porch had him leap a mile.

“The Mayor’s got him.” A woman wandered out from under the covered porch, leaning her folded arms on the wooden railing. Her black skin made her almost distinguishable from the night, just her stark white shirt a hint of her location. “Did he put up a fight?”

The man who was leading Tinsley to the house shook his head. “No.”

“Ah, so he’s a coward.”

The Mayor shook his head again. “No. You don’t have to fight everything in sight in order to not be a coward, Ms Norris.”

The woman shrugged her shoulders, lighting a cigarette behind a cupped hand. It illuminated her face for a quick second, and she was beautiful. “If you say so, Mayor.”

Tinsley allowed himself to be escorted up onto the porch and towards the door. The woman gave him a sly once-over as he passed, and the smirk on her face didn’t exactly make him feel at ease. He straightened up, bringing his shoulders back, puffing up his feathers. He found that his height was the only thing about him that made people think twice about attacking him. He stepped through the door after the Mayor, ducking his head a tad to do so. He readjusted his glasses. They were in a sitting room, a pleasant one, cosy, with plush sofas and an armchair or two. There was a drinks cabinet that was open, and some bottles uncorked. Tinsley allowed himself to be brought to an armchair and sat down in it. He took a deep breath as the people around him took off their coats and hats and spoke in Italian to each other. Everyone but the Mayor. He offered a cigarette to Tinsley. Tinsley accepted.

“You’re not in danger.”

Tinsley looked up at him from over his glasses. “Can I ask why I’m here?”

“Mr Garafalo wants to talk to you.”

Tinsley’s eyes widened, and he swiftly took the offered box of matches and lit up his cigarette with a shaky hand. He took a pull before saying: “Why?”

“You might be surprised.” The Mayor sat down, brushing off his trouser legs. "And this isn't the end of your journey. Ms Norris will drive you back into the city in her car."

Tinsley didn't bother to ask why. It was to make sure they weren't being followed. It was also a bit of a relief. "Okay."

Ten minutes later, he was in a new car, and the bag was back over his head. He felt a bit more at ease this time around. He thought of Ricardo on the way. He thought of his dark eyes and pretty face and general perfection. He also thought about how he had diced up a man like a piece of chicken and thrown the parts into a river. But that was just a rumour, he convinced himself. Just a rumour. Maybe the nickname 'the Reaper' was for something else. Maybe that was also just a rumour. It was all covered in shadows and they moved too quickly, too smoothly, for Tinsley to get a grip on. So he just sat and waited.

"This is a rare occurrence, detective," said Ms Norris from the driver's seat. "Ricky doesn't like to meet with law enforcement. So for your own sake, don't provoke him, and just don't be annoying in general. _Capisci_?"

Tinsley just nodded, although the gesture went unnoticed in the bag.

The car slowed an hour or so later. A window was rolled down and Ms Norris talked to what must have been a security guard of some sort. Gates creaked open. The car rolled on.

Tinsley was taken out of the car by two pairs of hands and escorted into a hallway. There, the bag was removed, almost taking his glasses with it. He scrambled to catch them, pushing them back on. He ran his hand through his hair in an attempt to flatten it somewhat. As usual, it was a colossal failure. He observed the hallway; cool marble, a large staircase, a hallway that branched off to the right with part of a kitchen visible, and a garden beyond. Ms Norris led him in behind the stairs to a door tucked away. Then she just winked at him and left.

Tinsley stood in the doorway, his coat folded over his folded arms. He looked at the man by the desk. A short man, but not small. He was handsome in a clean-cut way, at first glance. The more Tinsley looked, the more he began to notice that this man fit into the category of ‘pretty’ much more than ‘handsome’. His eyes were so brown they could’ve been black, and even at this distance his fringe of black lashes lined them quite perfectly indeed. His curly hair was just as black and shiny as his eyes. He was dressed plainly, in black trousers and black shoes and a white shirt. No accessories. No gold chains or gold cuffs or any of the usual stuff these sorts wore. Just him. Tinsley didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He eventually swallowed and said: “Hello.”

The reply was smooth. “Hi.”

“...I’m Tinsley. The detective.”

“I know who you are.” The man tapped the end of his cigarette off the surface of the desk, three times. “And you know who I am.”

It wasn’t a question, but Tinsley answered anyway. “Yes.”

“Then why are you lurking in my door like you’re not meant to be here.”

Tinsley pressed his lips in a line, feeling like a bit of a fool. “I suppose I was waiting for an invitation in.”

“I’ll make one thing clear now; I’m a busy man, and I don’t have time for such… frivolities. Hello, goodbye, how are you, kiss my hand and bow.” Ricky took hold of the back of one of the chairs, pulling it out with a sharp yank and giving Tinsley an impatient look over his shoulder as he turned away. “Sit.”

Tinsley moved into the room. He placed his coat over the back of the chair and sat down in it. He brushed his hands down his trouser legs, gripping his knees for a moment before forcing himself to relax. He lifted his gaze as he heard a lighter being sparked. Ricky put the lighter back in his pocket and sat halfway on the desk, one hand pressed to it for balance. He raised an eyebrow at Tinsley’s lingering stare.

“What’s on your mind.”

Tinsley blinked himself back to reality. “Sorry?”

“What’s on your mind. Right now.”

“I- Oh, um, well I was just thinking that you’re a lot younger than I thought you would be.”

Ricky’s dark brows raised at this. “Oh? And what age did you expect me to be?”

Tinsley shrugged. “Older.”

“Closer to your age?”

Tinsley’s brows drew together into a small frown. “I’m thirty-two. I’m not old.”

“And I’m twenty-eight. I’m not young.”

For a second, it seemed like the detective was going to snap at him. But he didn’t. He started fiddling with his shirt cuff, his lowered gaze watching. “You’re just... not quite what I expected, is all.”

“And what did you expect?”

Tinsley thought through all his previous anxieties, like a DJ flicking through records. Then he said, quite simply: “Anything else but what you are, really.”

Ricky watched him for a moment, watched him closely. The detective had gone back to his shirt cuffs, fixing one of them more tidily around his wrist. He had slim wrists, and nice hands that moved gently. He seemed sure of himself, but not in a loudmouth way. He just… was. Ricky remained on the desk, and each second that passed made him more sure that what he was doing wasn’t a mistake.

“How long have you been a detective?”

Tinsley stopped fiddling, looking back up at him. “Ten years, give or take.”

“That’s a long time. You must’ve become one young.”

“Young enough.”

“And do you like it?”

Tinsley looked aside. “I’m afraid to say yes.”

Ricky got off the desk, taking the two steps to the drinks cabinet. “I’m not going to hurt you. Drink?”

“...Okay.”

“Whiskey? Grappa?”

“Whiskey.”

“Soda?”

“No. Thanks.”

Ricky poured the drink straight, and made his own with a topping of soda and two cubes of ice. He turned, handing the detective’s drink out towards him. Tinsley stood up, leaning over to take it before sitting back down. Ricky sat halfway on the desk again, looking him over.

“You’re a big guy.”

Tinsley gave him a flat look at this. “I know.”

“So what’s with the timidity?”

The detective seemed a bit taken aback at this. “Timidity? I’m not timid.”

“You are. You shrink in on yourself.”

“Well I don’t mean to.” Tinsley took a taste of his drink. “And I suppose I have every right to be timid. Frightened, even. I don’t think you know what they say about you.”

“I know.”

“Well then there you go.” Tinsley sat back, crossing his legs, cradling his drink in his hands. “I’m timid because you’re a suspect in multiple homicide cases and an innumerable amount of armed robbery cases.”

“Yet you still came,” said Ricky quietly.

“Yes. I still came.”

“Why.”

“Because I was curious.” Tinsley turned his pointy nose into the air somewhat, although not in a smug way. “Why did you let me come?”

“Because I was also curious.” Ricky raised his glass, a mock salute. “We have something in common already.”

Tinsley looked away, down at the floor. “I don’t think that would be a good thing.”

“I think it would.” Ricky got to his feet and moved towards him, standing at the edge of his chair. “I think it would be good if we were friends, detective.”

Tinsley looked up at him from under his brows. “I didn’t think you’d want to be friends with a man in my position.”

“A man in your position can be a very valuable friend indeed.” He extended a hand, quite unexpectedly. “Walk with me.”

Tinsley eyed the hand, wondering exactly why it was held out, palm up. He was hesitant to put his own hand in it, but he did. Again, just curious. The man’s hand was warm and strong but still quite small in Tinsley’s. But the second Tinsley was on his feet, it was retracted and Ricky continued on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. Tinsley tutted from behind his teeth. Europeans and their touching. He followed the shorter man out into the cool hallway.

“How long have you been a detective here?”

“Just here?”

“Yes.”

Tinsley raised a hand, tilting it back and forth. “Two months, more or less.”

“I was thinking I’d never heard of you before.” Ricky looked at him, sidelong. “Or saw you. You’re not very forgettable.”

“I know. It’s the height. And the nose. And the hair.”

“Distinctive.”

“Unfortunately.”

Ricky took another mouthful of his drink. “And where were you beforehand?”

The answer was distracted. “Chicago. Who’s that?”

Ricky looked up at the painting the detective had pointed at. “That’s my grandparents. On my father’s side.”

“Dead?”

“Yes. Both.” Ricky pointed with the same hand holding his drink. “She shot him, and then someone else shot her.”

“Oh.” Tinsley eyed the two people in the frame. “They look happy together in this.”

“I know. What a farce.” His voice went quiet. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get married.”

“Rightly so. It’s a ghastly business.” Tinsley spoke matter-of-factly, but still absent-minded. “Makes being happy quite difficult.”

“Are you married?”

Tinsley raised his left hand, turning the ring on his finger with his thumb before letting it drop back to his side. He didn’t comment any further. “And what about them?”

“I’m not too sure. A great-aunt and great-uncle, maybe. Hard to remember after a time.” Ricky poked at the subject again. “What about your own family?”

Tinsley just acted like he hadn’t even heard him. He moved on down the corridor, unaware of the scowl Ricky threw at the back of his head. “How many of you are left?”

“Enough.” Ricky watched him move towards the basement door, a dark eyebrow raised. “Where are you going?”

Tinsley looked over his shoulder at him, a hand on the door handle. “Downstairs, I suppose.”

“What do you think you’re going to find?”

“I don’t know. Which is why I feel inclined to go down.”

Ricky gave him an odd look, a smile just about pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay. Sure.”

Tinsley opened the door, and it led to a dark wooden stairway. He moved down it, a step at a time, feeling along the wall with his free hand, the other still holding his drink. He let his fingertips continue brushing the wall, searching for the light switch, and he felt a hand bump into his. He went entirely still as Ricky’s hand fixed around the back of his, guiding it to the left, and finding the light switch. Then the hand was retracted. Again.

“It’s there,” said Ricky. “Turn it on.”

Tinsley waited for a moment in the dark, giving his face a chance to cool before switching on the light. “Oh. A pantry.”

“And something else.” Ricky’s hand was soft against his lower back, guiding him through the shelves. “Something you’ll be using a lot, if you agree to work with me.”

Tinsley barely heard him. The feeling of the man’s hand on his back was enough to make him almost forget how to move like a normal human being. Ricky didn’t seem uncomfortable whatsoever, watching ahead. Tinsley took a deep breath. _Damn Europeans_.

“This here,” began Ricky, slipping around him and to the wall. “Is a door.”

Tinsley watched in silence as the other man shifted a stack of shelves aside, contents and all, like it weighed nothing. There was indeed a door. It was a wooden one, set into the wall, and it had a very old-looking handle and keyhole. Ricky took down a tub of flour and shook it around a bit before popping the lid off and retrieving a key from inside. He raised an eyebrow at Tinsley.

“What’s with the smirking.”

Tinsley shrugged. “I just… expected more finesse, I suppose.”

“Well today seems to be all about subverting your expectations.” He unlocked the door, pushing it open. It was heavy and thick. “Stand here.”

“I…” Tinsley’s sentence drifted away as he felt a hand wrap around his wrist, gentle but firm. He let it pull him into the doorway. “Okay.”

“Feel that breeze?”

Tinsley could feel it. It was playing lightly with his hair. “Yeah.”

“That’s from two blocks over. A tunnel we used during Prohibition.”

“Oh.”

“Now I’m not going to tell you which direction it goes or to what blocks,” said Ricky with a sly smile. He closed the door over and locked it. “Because you haven’t actually agreed to help me as of yet. So this will be your private entrance and exit, if you say yes.”

Tinsley watched him go back to the tub of flour and drop the key back in. “And what if I say no?”

Ricky paused. Then he turned on his heel, stepping forward to face the taller man more directly. He was dusting his hand off, rubbing the floury one off the clean one. “I really hope you don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because believe it or not, you’ve actually grown on me a bit in the past fifteen minutes.” Ricky’s voice dropped a tad, his eyes looking up and to the side. “Never thought I’d say that about a cop, but here we are.”

Tinsley raised a hand to just about touch his face, and it was warm. He was blushing. He dropped his hand again, turning his head aside, chewing on his lip for a second. He was pretending to be thoughtful, but really, he was attempting to steady himself. “I don’t know whether or not to be complimented by that.”

Ricky spoke as he passed him by, picking his drink up off the shelf. “Well you _look_ complimented.”

Tinsley scowled after him. Then he followed with his arms folded, more or less hugging himself. They went back up into the hallway, and Ricky closed the door behind them. The kitchen was around the corner, large and bright with windows not only on the walls but on the ceiling too. Tinsley could just about make out the sparkling blue of a pool in the garden outside. It was a hell of a place. Ricky lit a cigarette, flicking the steel lighter shut before taking a drag. He opened his mouth to talk, but the other man got there first.

“You smoke a lot,” commented Tinsley.

Ricky frowned. “And?”

“It’s bad for you. You know, there’s studies coming out, showing links to lung cancer and-”

“Are you a detective or a doctor?”

Tinsley straightened up slightly at the hostility, but he didn’t quake. “A detective.”

“Exactly.” Ricky took another drag, albeit moodily. “And you smoke too.”

“Only two a day.”

“You still smoke,” said Ricky firmly. “So either stick by your word or don’t bother opening your mouth at all.”

Tinsley head tilted to one side, his eyes narrowing. “My sincerest apologies.”

Ricky’s eyes narrowed too, his lip curling a tad. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant look. Not at all. Tinsley didn’t look away. He took a deep breath through his nose, raising his chin an inch. The moment swiftly grew hot, dangerously hot, burning. Tinsley turned his gaze away first, his teeth gritting. The air cooled a considerable amount. Ricky strode past him, nose in the air. Perhaps things had taken a turn for the worst.

“I think I spoke too early when I said you’d grown on me,” said Ricky, topping up his glass with a fresh bottle. He didn’t offer Tinsley any more for his. “I wasn’t aware you had a stubborn streak.”

“I think it’s called a personality.”

“Well I preferred you when I thought you were just a vapid cop.”

“And I preferred you when I thought you were just a pretty little boy,” he replied just as cuttingly.

Ricky whipped around to face him, his mouth opened and eyes round. The silence was brittle. “Excuse me?”

Tinsley unfolded his arms, his face paling. “I- I’m sorry, that was out of line. I-”

“How dare you. How _dare_ you.” Ricky stepped forward and Tinsley stepped back, move for move. “I should take your tongue out for even _thinking_ about speaking to me like that, you gangly son of a bitch. Get out of my sight before I do.”

“I didn’t-”

“GET OUT!”

Tinsley blanched at the flaring temper that was quickly alighting in front of him. He fled the house, taking his coat on the way. He paced down the driveway, throwing a look over his shoulder at the house, just in case he was being pursued. It was giant, and the lawns were preened to perfect, like rolling green velvet. He refused to dwell on what had just happened. He'd taken a perfect opportunity to start some sort of negotations and thrown it away just with a few careless words.Tinsley tutted at himself, walking onwards, keeping an eye out for a taxi. A few drove past, but he didn't exactly notice. He was too distracted. Was he in danger now? Was he a name on a hitlist? Was he going to be the next body found unrecognizable in some cottage or river or restaurant? A pretty little boy. A _pretty little boy._ What in the world had he been thinking? He groaned, stopping on the street corner, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was a right idiot sometimes. 

Meanwhile, back at the house, Fran was attempting to subdue her boss.

"A pretty little boy!" Ricky spread his arms. "Who does he think he is! I've never been-" He descended into curses, passing his hands down his face. "Oh, he had me fooled. He did. Tricked me. I had him down as a meek mouse of a man but he's _not._ A _pretty little-"_

"-boy. Yes, you said."

Ricky stared at her. Then he placed his hands on the table, his eyes watching her face. "Is- Is he right? Is that all I am?"

She shook her head. "No, no, not at all. But at first glance..."

"I look like a little boy?"

"You look... well, pretty."

Ricky debated whether or not he found this bit insulting. He decided he didn't. He straightened up and folded his arms. "Right. Right, okay."

"...Do you still want me to go after him?"

Ricky considered this. Then he shook his head, turning away. "No. No, you can go home. I just need some rest. He got me all- all on edge."

"Doesn't take much to do that."

" _Okay, you're pushing it now."_

_"I know, I know, Sleeping Beauty needs his rest."_

He stuck his tongue out at her as she left. He wandered around the kitchen for a few minutes, arms folded tightly, lips pressed in a line. Then he went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation:  
>  _capisci?_ \- do you understand?


	4. Suocera

Family meetings were a lot smoother ever since Lorenzo had become bed-ridden. There was no arguing or debating or personal jabs. There was just Ricky, his mom, and his sister. His two rocks. Unlike Lorenzo, he acknowledged this, so he listened patiently to what they had to say as they sat around the table.

“Your father will die, and there will be resistance, as there always is when a change of hands comes around,” said Lucy, tapping her claw-like false nails off her mug. Her sunglasses were large and covered her eyes and the brows above them. “The funeral will happen, and what do we have to do? What do we always have to do?”

“No cracks,” said Izzy, linking her hands on the table. “United front, yes?”

“Yes. And we support your brother.” Lucy placed a hand on Ricky’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “Until everything has settled down again. Yes, _cucciolo_?”

He tilted his head away a tad as she went to pinch his cheek. “Well the first step can be to stop calling me that.”

“I’m still your mother, Ricardo. That will never change.”

Izzy rolled her eyes midway through her mouthful of coffee, but she didn’t risk contesting the statement. Lucy didn’t give her the chance anyway.

“The funeral won’t be a private one,” said Lucy, stirring her own coffee, her expression hidden behind her sunglasses, despite the fact they were indoors in a closed-off café. “I’ve decided. Lorenzo wouldn’t want a private one.”

It didn’t take too long for her children to pick apart her plan. Izzy rolled her eyes for the hundredth time that minute.

“Nonnina won’t come if it’s a public funeral.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Lucy managed to remain casual, expertly so. She fixed her hair as she spoke. “That would be a pity.”

“Nonnina has always been very good to the children,” said Izzy. “From wherever in the world she’s hiding, she’s never forgotten a single birthday. She didn’t forget Christmas, she didn’t forget-”

“She forgot me and Lorenzo’s anniversary,” said Lucy, her brows raising above her sunglasses. “Almost… Oh, every year in a row! What a selective memory she has, yes?”

“Well I would like to see her again,” said Izzy with finality. “And I would like my children to see their great-grandmother again.”

“If she loves the children so much, she’ll come to the public funeral,” said Lucy with a shrug, sitting back in her seat. “And-”

“The funeral will be private and Nonnina will attend,” said Ricky cuttingly, giving his spoon a light but definitive tap off the table. “And you’ll treat her with the kindness needed to achieve the unity that you so often preach.”

Even behind her shades, the blink of surprise was evident. Then the brows dropped to a frown. “You don’t under-”

“I’m glad I don’t understand,” said Ricky, tilting his head to one side with a raised brow. “It’s petty and unimportant and I don’t care for it. A man you both love is dying and if that’s not uniting enough for you than I don’t know what is.”

Izzy threw him a mocking pout. “Someone’s in a mood because a certain meeting didn’t go as expected.”

Ricky gave her a warning look in return. “It went the way it went. He’s not what I expected. He’s not what any of us expected.”

“So you’ve made an enemy instead of a friend,” said Lucy with just a touch of haughtiness. “So that’s two enemies working in close quarters against us. That wretched Horsley woman will be ecstatic.”

“ _But,_ there hasn’t been any officers knocking on my door with charges of bribery or intimidation,” said Izzy, folding her arms around her cup. “Any of you two?”

Lucy shook her head. She slipped her sunglasses off and folded the arms. “You, Ricardo?”

He shook his head, but he was thinking. “No. No, nothing. I suppose I- I sent him away with his tail between his legs."

"So he's meek."

" _No._ " Ricky said this strongly, dropping the spoon he'd been playing with. "No, he's not. I made that mistake. He has a backbone. Unfortunately."

"So he's easily underestimated," said Lucy, sounding surprisingly pleased. "That's good. That's the beginnings of a perfect informant. Why do you think I chose Banjo, after all? He's as soft as dough, no one would ever suspect him of such a thing. It's the same with this Tinsley."

"No. No, I don't wish to talk to him again."

"Why?" asked Izzy with a raised brow. "What did he do?"

"He- He was rude," said Ricky with unusual vagueness, taking a moment to gesture at the waiter for the bill. "And unpleasant. And disrespectful. I won't stand for it."

His sister gave him a long look, forcing herself not to smile. "Did someone give you a tap on the wrist, hm?"

Ricky tutted from behind his teeth. "Shut up."

"Then that's all the more reason to get him under your thumb, Ricardo. You can't have a detective wandering around out there who rebuffed your attempt at cooperation!" Lucy shook her head in earnest. "No, that would be a bad start. In everyone's eyes. It would imply a lack of control, of power."

Ricky scowled at the table. "He didn't rebuff my cooperation. He just- I may have reacted harshly to an insult or two."

"Ma is right," said Izzy, checking her watch. "And I have to get Mia and Marta from school and to ballet. I'll see you later."

She kissed both of them on the cheek before leaving, her car keys out already, the two men on the door letting her out. Ricky ran a hand through his hair, tangling it there as he leaned forwards on the table. He scowled at the surface, reluctantly looking up as he felt the finger under his chin.

"Stop scowling," said Lucy, an eyebrow raised. "And stop pouting. Leaders don't scowl and pout. They control their faces. And their actions. And their words." 

She emphasized the last sentence. Ricky turned his gaze away, mumbling that he knew, that he'd work on his temper.

"Your temper is a weapon, Ricky. More similar to a nuclear bomb than anything else. Use it just as if it was such." She got to her feet. "Only when no one else is around to see it but the victims."

Ricky watched her leave, his gaze distant. He waved a _soldat_ over and ordered a phone call to be sent to Fran. The waiter came with the bill. Ricky looked him over from head-to-toe, not for the first time that day. Far from the first time. He was cute, with a smattering of freckles and dark eyes. He smiled at Ricky. Ricky didn't smile back, examining the bill as he spoke.

"How long have you worked here?"

The waiter didn't look away from his eyes. It wasn't the first instance of lingering eye contact that day either. "Only a few weeks, _signore_."

Ricky nodded, leaving the cash on the silver dish. "I was thinking I hadn't seen you before."

"I've seen _you_ before. In the papers."

Ricky was on his feet now, and at such a proximity he was an inch or two taller than the waiter. He spoke quiet, but casual. "I hope you're not frightened. Papers lie."

"No. I'm not frightened. Not at all."

"That's good to hear." Ricky handed him a generous tip, pressing the cash into the palm of his hand, curling his fingers over it. "I hope you recognize valuable friends when you see them."

A vigorous nod. "Yes. Of course."

Ricky gave his face a slow once-over before smiling. He took his coat and left without a glance over his shoulder.

* * *

The stairs had a habit of creaking when it was least wanted. Tinsley had come in late after his involuntary rendezvous with a particular criminal, and he’d decided to kip on the couch. He probably would have anyway. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten clothes from the bedroom the night before. So now, in the morning, he had to risk entering the bedroom.

He pushed open the door slowly, and she was there, a lump under the covers in the dark. Tinsley eyed her warily. He didn’t need a verbal bashing around. Not this morning. He crept into the room and over to the wardrobe and began piecing together a suit, in the dark. He just hoped everything matched.

“Where were you last night.”

Tinsley paused, his shoulders stiffening. “Hm?”

“Where were you.” Her voice was muffled, gritty. “You were home late. Very late.”

He couldn’t help it. “I’m surprised you remember.”

She ignored the snipe. “Where were you.”

He wound his tie around his hand, keeping his back to her. “I don’t think you have the right to go around asking questions like that.”

“Answer the damn question, idiot.”

He took a deep breath through his nose, glowering at the inside of the wardrobe. “I went for a drink.”

“With who.”

A crime lord. A kingpin. “No one.”

“Liar. Who did you go with.”

“No one,” he insisted, picking up his clothes and heading for the door.

“Were you fucking someone else.”

Tinsley paused in the doorway, a hand on the door. He threw her a look. “No, I- No. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Was it a man.”

Tinsley’s breath jumped. “I’m not entertaining this. Not now. I- I have to go to work.”

“You always have to go to work.”

“Shockingly, I find it a lot more comfortable than being at home,” he muttered, closing the door behind him and shutting the darkness in. The reek of alcohol was shut in too.

He tied his tie as he hurried down the stairs, swiping his bag up off the floor beside the door before leaving. Straight away, there were eyes on him, as there had been since the press conference where he’d made himself known to the eyes of the Goldsworths. There were eyes on him as he walked to the train station. There were eyes on him in the carriage of the train, watching him lean against a railing and read his book, keeping to himself. In fact, the _soldats_ keeping an eye on him and his daily going-ons were actually beginning to grow quite fond of his gentle manner and general charm, of which he seemed to be entirely unaware. He didn’t notice the wistful looks that the girls would throw him as he wandered past, or the way his interactions seemed to bring a smile to whoever was at the receiving end. In fact, he seemed to live inside his own head most of the time, his feet taking him to his place of work without his mind registering it. Until, of course, he got to his usual coffee shop.

He went up to the counter and ordered his coffee, and the barista leaned across the counter to say: “You dropped something here yesterday morning. I kept it in the back room.”

Tinsley frowned. “Oh. Okay. I didn’t notice anything missing.”

“I better check it’s yours then! Just follow me.”

Tinsley followed him into the back room without much suspicion, and came to an immediate halt once inside. The barista slipped back out and closed the door over, leaving him in this impromptu meeting, alone.

“On your way to work?” asked Ms Norris, the corners of her mouth tucking inward in a sly smile. She was wearing black trousers cropped just above the ankle, shiny black shoes, and a crisp white shirt tucked in. The coat over her shoulders was a men's blazer in grey. “Or can you take the morning off?”

Tinsley looked from her to the blue-eyed older man beside her. He was also dressed neatly, in a white shirt, black waistcoat and black trousers, with a long black coat and a matching hat. Tinsley felt quite slapdash beside them. “I can’t take the morning off.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Norris with a lazy blink. “I think it would be in your best interest.”

Tinsley looked from her to the Mayor again, who stood impassive, his face like stone. “Would it be?”

The Mayor nodded, a single slow one. “I believe so.”

Norris winked at him. Tinsley held the strap of his bag with both hands, his lips pressed in a line as he considered his options. He quickly realized he was considering thin air. He only had one true option here, which was do whatever they wanted. His other option was to find out why Norris’ wink had sent chills down his spine.

“Can I get my coffee first?”

The Mayor shook his head, again, a single slow one. “No need. You’ll be going to a café.”

“Why.”

“To meet Mr Goldsworth. He wants to apologize for his outburst.”

“No.” Tinsley’s gaze flickered between them, seeing the equal looks of surprise. “No, I don’t want to meet him again. I was lucky I left his home last night with my head and neck intact. Anymore would be tempting fate.”

“He wants to discuss a potential informant situation,” said Norris coolly, like he hadn’t said a word. “The end goal of which is to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

“I’m not a fool,” said Tinsley, staring at her. “I know that the goal of informants is to keep up with the cops.”

“He-”

Tinsley’s interjection was fierce. “I said no. Now if that’s everything.”

“I would advise that you meet him,” said the Mayor before the woman beside him could draw her gun from the holster under her arm. “He simply wishes to speak. If Mr Goldsworth wished to coerce you into something, it would be a lot more unpleasant than this. That I can promise you.”

“I trust him as far as I could throw him,” said Tinsley.

“I’d say that’d be pretty far, to be honest,” said Norris, looking him up and down and back again. “You must be at least a head taller.”

“Head and shoulders,” corrected the Mayor.

“It’s just a saying.” Tinsley rubbed a hand over his mouth, letting it rest there, feeling the scratchy stubble. His other hand rested on his hip. “Right. Right, if I go and meet him and refuse him to his face, will that be the end of it? This is risky enough as it is.”

“Sure.” Norris smiled, releasing the grip on her gun. “That’s all he wants.”

Tinsley hesitated for a few more minutes, hands on his hips, fingers tapping. “Is it true he’s called the Reaper?”

“Not to his face,” she replied.

“So he kills people a lot.”

“No. No, the Grim Reaper’s job is to kill someone when their time has come. No sooner and no later. It keeps order in the world.” The Mayor shrugged. “Mr Goldsworth works to a similar method. He likes to keep order in his world.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t want to become part of it.”

Norris smiled, showing her pearly whites. “He’s set eyes on you, detective. You’re already part of it.”

* * *

The man was sitting in the charming patio area, his head turned aside, a thoughtful expression on his face. The light emphasized his marmoreal features, the straight nose and sharp jaw and full lips. In fact, he was so perfectly perfect that Tinsley couldn’t help but feel a sudden and unreasonable surge of hatred for him. He quickly quashed it and stepped into the small yard, which had three other tables (empty) and vines draped across the red brick walls. Ricky looked at him, resting his chin in his hand. He gestured vaguely at the seat across from him, black wrought iron like the table, with a cushioned seat. Tinsley sat down, placing his satchel on the paved stone. He tugged his tie looser, unbuttoned his collar; it was a warm day, humid. Ricky watched the movement of his hands, a somewhat curious look in his black eyes. Then he sat back, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his top knee.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

Ricky made a quick gesture through the glass doors at the barista before sitting back again. “I’m surprised you agreed to meet again.”

“Your friends are very persuasive.”

“You’re very easily persuaded.”

Tinsley straightened up a tad at this, taking a deep breath through his nose. “I know what you want. You want me to be an informant.”

“Astute.”

“But I want to know why me. I want to hear it from your mouth, and I want to be convinced. Here. Now.”

Ricky’s head inclined a fraction of a centimetre, like a dog hearing a noise it had never heard before. This noise, right now, was a demand. “What if I decide you don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Then I suppose you’ll be in for a bit of a rocky relationship with your new informant.”

The coffees arrived in patterned ceramic cups on matching saucers. A bowl of sugar and a small jug of milk was also brought. It would have all been quite pleasant, if it wasn’t for the two men currently occupying the table. Ricky added some milk and sugar to his cup, taking his time with it, stirring the coffee with the slim silver spoon provided. Tinsley drank his black, like his mood.

“I want you because you’re easily underestimated,” said Ricky after a minute or so, still watching his coffee as he stirred it. “Because one look at you and no one would think you have the guts to do what you’re doing right now.”

“Thanks.”

Ricky spared a dry smile at the flat tone. “You’re insulted, are you?”

“Oh, not at all. You’re charming the life out of me.”

The anger flashed in the other man’s eyes, and Tinsley readied himself for another furious outburst. He realized that he was actually quite eager for one. The other man's rage was satisfying to watch, to hear. He said what was bothering him and why it bothered him without hesitation, something that others simply didn't have the guts to do. But surprisingly, it didn’t come. Ricky closed his eyes, his jaw clenching. Then he took a deep breath, letting it out through his mouth.

“My mother and father didn’t care who died due to their actions. They never did. I care. It’s not exactly a characteristic that’s appreciated in my line of work, but I won’t pretend that I’m otherwise. I’m an emotional man.” Ricky brought his hand to his mouth, letting the tip of his thumb rest just between his teeth, pensive. Then he took it away and continued. “I believe I may have jumped to conclusions last night. And I know I provoked your reaction. I- I have a lot more fire to me than ice, I’m afraid.”

Tinsley noted his elaborate sayings, his use of flowery wording. He said: "Is English your first language?"

Ricky stared at him for a moment, seeming quite taken aback, and then quite insulted. His gaze hardened. "No." His gaze flickered, nervous all of a sudden. "Why?"

"You speak very eloquently."

"Oh. Oh, well, yes. I know."

"Do you mind if I asked how you learned it?"

Ricky shrugged, his confidence regained just like that. "Movies. Theatre. Books. Anything I could get my hands on, really. I had to learn. Speaking Italian isn't always appreciated by you people."

"Well I think it's very nice. Very... musical."

Ricky's brows raised, his lids heavy. "You honour me immensely with your opinion." He exhaled sharply in lieu of a laugh. "You American men and your opinions. You really believe they're weighted in the world. Well they're not in my world."

Tinsley lowered his gaze, but not out of meekness. It was out of anger. He couldn't say a single thing around this man without invoking some sort of hostility. "Well would you prefer my insults? I can make them as weighted as you'd like."

This got a dead silence. Tinsley risked raising his gaze again, keeping his face guarded. Ricky was staring at him like he'd been slapped in the face, his dark eyes wide, his neck stiff. All of a sudden, a smile broke onto his face, wry. He laughed, shaking his head a tad, his hair waving with it. Tinsley felt his entire body relax.

"I thought you a bit of a robot, I'll admit," said Ricky, still chuckling away as he lifted his coffee to his mouth. "A brick in the temple of the law. But perhaps you have a bit of personality to you after all."

"It's best to be a brick sometimes."

“Yes. Yes, it’s perfect. _You’re_ perfect.” Ricky leaned forward, suddenly all eager. “Informants like you don’t come around often. Men with heads on their shoulders and a will of their own, but still with an understanding of what needs to be done and why it needs to be done. If you agree to work for me, you’ll be saving lives, detective. That is my priority as of now.”

Tinsley didn’t let himself get whisked away in this man’s river of charm. Not yet. “I don’t want to work for you. I’ll work _with_ you.”

“Is that an important distinction for you?”

“Yes. Most people enjoy having some sort of autonomy in their lives.”

Ricky rested his chin on his hand, a finger distractedly tracing his lips. Tinsley struggled not to watch, but his gaze flickered down every few seconds. Just curious. He was relieved when Ricky finally spoke again.

“My family and the local police force have always had a… relationship of sorts. But you and your Federal Bureau are relatively new, and it seems you have a bit more power in your hands. Is that accurate?”

Tinsley nodded.

“Good. Good, because I feel we could help each other.” He put out a hand and took hold of Tinsley’s, his thumb slipping under his palm, his fingers across the back of his hand. “I don’t want innocent blood spilled, and I don’t want my family to be harmed. That’s all.”

Tinsley swallowed. He looked from their hands to Ricky’s eyes, and decided that he simply wouldn’t believe that this man had murdered before. He wasn’t cruel or evil. He was pure and innocent and his eyes sparkled like stars. Tinsley blinked. What was he doing, letting himself be won over like this? The man in front of him was a criminal, a killer. He would slap you and then kiss the cheek he’d just struck. Tinsley quickly retracted his hand, hiding it under the table. Ricky didn’t seem to notice.

“Let me sleep on it.”

Ricky’s brows came together in a frown. “What? Why?”

“Because I want it to be my choice as much as it is yours.”

Ricky tilted his chin up at this. He had an almost regal manner about him, a habit of sticking his nose in the air, and even in his most lax state he seemed to be able to keep his head high. Tinsley hadn’t quite decided whether or not he found it pleasing. “Fine. I suppose you can do that. But we meet tomorrow, here, at the same time.”

Tinsley shrugged. “Fine. That’s okay.”

They sat in a strange silence then, seeing as they had ended their conversation before their coffees. Tension spread over them like oil waiting for a flame. Ricky was still watching him, not quite threatening, but not quite harmless either. Tinsley held his gaze.

“Do you have children, detective?”

Tinsley blinked at this, and the discomfort set in his shoulders. “I- No.”

“But you’re married,” said Ricky, eyeing the ring on his finger.

“I’m aware.”

“How long?” asked Ricky, as if he didn’t already know the answers to each of the questions. He just wanted to see if he would lie.

“Ten years. Give or take.”

“Do you mind if I ask why there’s no little Tinsleys running around? If such a thing as a ‘little Tinsley’ exists.”

Tinsley looked aside. “I just- Actually yes, I do mind you asking that.”

“Ah. You’re uncomfortable about the subject, are you?”

Tinsley glared at him. “I don’t believe you have any right to be asking such questions, especially seeing as you’re neither married nor a father. How would you like me poking around in that part of your life, hm?”

Ricky seemed at ease, infuriatingly so. “I simply haven’t gotten around to such frivolities yet, detective. And to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t find a single bit of it appealing.”

“Well you seem to find it very interesting,” muttered Tinsley. “When it comes to me.”

“I find you very interesting in general, I’ll admit.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t take that as a compliment.” Tinsley decided to leave the end of his coffee, picking up his bag and getting to his feet. “It’s been delightful. Same time tomorrow.”

“No.” Ricky looked him over, slowly. “No, I’ve changed my mind. I want you to see something.”

Tinsley pushed his glasses up along his nose with one long finger. “And what something is that.”

“A surprise. It'll be in the mail soon."

Tinsley narrowed his eyes at this. “You don’t know my address.”

Ricky just smiled. “It'll be in the mail.”

* * *

Lucy sat in her office and smoked her monogrammed cigarettes. A small tumbler of amaro sat beside her coffee. She took the wedge of lime off the saucer and squeezed a few drops into the alcohol. Then she went back to the arrangements for the funeral. It was a bit soon, as Lorenzo was still breathing, but the doctor said by the end of the week he would be gone. Lucy faked her weeping and sorrow. She had had to fake a lot around Lorenzo. Especially in bed. She threw her eyes at the ceiling.

The telephone trilled on her desk and she picked it up off the hook. "Yes?"

"It's Mrs Goldsworth, signora."

Lucy felt a prickle on the back of her neck. "I am Mrs Goldsworth."

"I'm sorry, signora, but she insisted on being introduced as Mrs Goldsworth."

Lucy grit her teeth. _Nonnina_. "Put her through."

There was a click, but it may as well have been a cage door rattling open. "Hello, dearest daughter-in-law."

Lucy ran her tongue along her teeth before saying: "Hello, Carmela."

"Hello, Lucía. How is my son? I trust you are easing his passing."

She stifled her smile. "As much as I can."

"Oh, well then that is simply not enough. I'm on my way right now, in fact."

Lucy's heart dropped. "What?"

"I'm on the train into the city, and from there I will be requiring a form of transport." A pensive pause. "Nothing too flashy. I wouldn't want to be attracting attention now, would I."

“No. No, that would be just... awful.”

“I trust my grandchildren and great-grandchildren are in good health?”

“They’re in my hands.”

“That isn’t a satisfactory answer, I’m afraid.” A clucking of teeth. She always had such an irritating manner of doing so. “I wish to be brought straight to the house. I want to see my son.”

“Perhaps you should have warned me of your arrival earlier. I would have had a-”

“Warned you? I’m your _suocera_ , Lucía, not an enemy.”

Lucy let the silence linger just long enough to let her know exactly what she thought of that sentence. “Of course. I can’t wait to see you. It’s been… so long.”

“Too long.”

“If you say so.” Lucy skipped onward. “What time does your train arrive in?”

“Twenty minutes, I was last told.”

Lucy checked her watch, knowing full well they could be on time. “Oh, most of the cars are in use as of then. You might have to wait for a few minutes.”

“Ah, disorganized. Nothing has changed.”

“If you had told me you were coming I-”

“Yes, you don’t have foresight either. I know. You’re lucky you have a pretty face and a big behind or who knows where you’d be.”

Lucy glared at the phone, spitting her words into it. “You will not come into _my_ home and talk to me this way, _vecchia strega_. I will make that clear now.”

“Is it still your home when Lorenzo passes? I understand he signed a prenup.” A thoughtful hum. “In fact, I was pretty insistent that he sign one. Just one look at you made me cautious.”

“This is _my_ home. My home and my family’s home.” Lucy was on her feet now, both hands clasping the phone to her ear. “Don’t come in here causing trouble for us, _capisci?”_

“Of course, _cara._ I am just here to ensure the safety of my flesh and blood.”

Lucy took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Her mind whirred. “I’m relieved to hear that. The car will collect you when you arrive.”

She hung up, sitting down and picking her cigarette back up. It had burned halfway down in her absence. She knocked the considerable amount of ash off before picking up the phone again and spinning in a memorized number. It was, as usual, answered.

“Horsley speaking.”

“ _Buonasera_ , Holly.”

A harsh sigh. “What do you want.”

“A mutually beneficial favour.”

“You should come up with a new one,” muttered Holly. “I’ve had that thrown back in my face an innumerable amount of times.”

“Hear me out, dear Horsley. _Il nemico del mio nemico è mio amico_ , yes?”

“You know I can’t speak Italian, Lucy.”

Lucy did indeed know this, but any chance to knock Holly down a notch was gratefully received.

“My enemy’s enemy is my friend,” said Lucy slowly, testing the waters. “Yes?”

Holly thought before she spoke. She always thought before she spoke. “I don’t want to get involved in your family drama.”

“Is that not your job?”

“Save the jokes. I’m the only one on the line.”

Lucy spoke one word, nice and clear. “Nonnina.”

A pause. “...The Oddmother?”

“The one and only.”

“Alright, I’ll bite. Keep talking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation:  
>  _cucciolo_ \- pet / dear  
>  _soldat_ \- soldier i.e. underman in the mafia  
>  _suocera_ \- mother-in-law  
>  _vecchia strega_ \- old hag  
>  _cara_ \- dear  
>  _il nemico del mio nemico è mio amico_ \- the enemy of my enemy is my friend


	5. Sunday Meals

Lucy spent Sunday morning at Lorenzo's bedside, despite the fact he was asleep the majority of the time now. She didn't want to be there. She never had. He had been an unpleasant man to be around, and she wouldn't have married him if she hadn't fallen pregnant and needed the security. She had been nineteen years of age, and he twenty-three. She knew what he was at the time; she knew he was part of the mafia, and she also knew that that meant a strange level of honour. If she was pregnant, he couldn't turn her away. So he accepted, and she became Lucía Goldsworth, and the rest wasn't exactly a love story for the ages. She had given birth to a girl, Isabella. That wouldn't do, said Nonnina. A son was needed. So she had another child with Lorenzo, and to her relief, it was a boy. Ricardo. She hadn't been interested in anymore children after that, even though Nonnina had complained and pressured and preached that families should have an abundance of children. Lucy had ignored this, and the day Nonnina had to go into hiding was the day her home began to look like a happy one.

Until they'd caught Ricky with the maid's son, at the young age of sixteen. It had just been a kiss, he'd cried. That was all. Just a kiss. Lucy had argued for him. Boys are curious at such an age. He's still so young. Lorenzo had grounded him for a month regardless and fired the maid. Yes, Lucy had never loved her husband. She'd simply tolerated him until he became truly, awfully intolerable.

Isabella had grown to be strong-willed and stable and with a wisdom that outdated her age. Ricky had grown to be passionate and fiery and with a surprising softness to him that she had nurtured as best as she could. She had raised them both herself, in the end. If anything, she had been working against Lorenzo the entire time. Her children wouldn't grow to be bitter and resentful and insecure, like Lorenzo had seemed to want. She had made sure of it.

Lucy got to her feet and went into the en suite bathroom, where she wet some tissue and pressed it to her eyes, smudging her makeup an appropriate amount. She flushed the stained tissue and went downstairs. The smell of food was delicious. Nonnina was making Sunday lunch. Lucy gave the mascara under her eyes a convincing wipe away as she entered the kitchen.

" _Buongiorno_ , mamma." Isabella was setting the table, her dark hair tied up and off her face. "How did you sleep?"

"Not very good, I'm afraid." She breezed past Nonnina and kissed her daughter on both cheeks. "I'm worried sick."

"I know, mamma."

"Where's Ricky on this fine morning?"

"Outside with the kids."

"He spends a lot of time with the kids," said Nonnina, in her light inquisitive voice that meant someone was doing something she didn't like. "Why is that?"

Lucy watched her stirring the pot on the stove, slow-cooking whatever was inside. "Because they're his nieces and his nephew. His family."

Nonnina nodded, very much preoccupied with the pot. It was a stew she was making. "Where's his own?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw the quick glance Izzy threw at her. "His own what, Carmela?"

"His own children. Where's his wife?" Nonnina added a few leaves of basilico to the pot. "He's almost thirty now, yes? He's handsome. Extraordinarily so. He's smart. Not extraordinarily, but he's smart nonetheless. He's going to gain control of this _plaza_ when my dear Lorenzo passes. So why does he have no wife?"

"He'll find one when he wants one," said Izzy, an attempt to end the line of conversation. "He-"

"I've heard the rumours," said Nonnina, clipping her wiry dark hair back behind her head again. "I've heard about Ricardo."

Lucy joined her at the stove, resting her hands on the edge of the stainless-steel countertop. She said, in a quiet voice: "We don't give life to rumours in this house."

"Are they true? Is he _un finocchio_?"

Lucy had to hold herself back from slapping the other woman across the head. She had to be careful here. React too defensively, and she may as well just stand still and say _yes._ So she simply commented on the insensitivity of the word, and tried to change the subject. Nonnina would not be distracted so easily.

"I hear he cooks and gardens, and I know he stayed in Isabella's last night to mind the children for her." Nonnina shook her head. "He should be with the men, being a man."

"He is a good man and a good son," said Lucy bitingly. "And he is brave and he is loyal and he is intelligent. And I won't hear any more about any other unimportant qualities he might have." She turned away, crossing the kitchen towards the back door. "Just keep stirring your damned sauce."

Ricky was on the expanse of grass beside the pool, a chequered tea towel twisted up as a blindfold as he played whatever games the kids wanted him to play. This morning, it was blind-man's-buff. He was smiling wide, hands out as he followed the giggles of the little ones who were running rings around him. Lucy stood on the edge of the paved path and watched for a moment or two. It was a warming sight. Eventually, she called his name. He straightened up, raising the towel off one eye to find her.

"Yes?"

"Come inside and help set the table."

His shoulders slumped. "But ma, I'm-"

"The _piccoli_ can help you too."

Three little pairs of shoulders slump, and there was a small chorus of "But _nonna_."

"Come along."

Ricky led them inside, letting the twins hold onto a hand each. He was great with the children, he always had been. He would have made a great father, but he seemed content enough with being a great uncle, and as long as he was content, so was Lucy. She followed him inside. Izzy was setting up the drop-leaf cart, and Nonnina started loading it with the food. Usually on a Sunday it was Lucy and Ricky who would do the cooking. Izzy would be charged with setting the table. But last night Nonnina had arrived, and everything was disrupted. The routine, the dynamics, the atmosphere in the house, all of it was thrown off. But hopefully, just for another day or so. Yes, Nonnina was good at ruining things, but she was also good at cooking.

There was a fusilli with ricotta and sweet peppers for _il primo_. For _il secondo_ there was a beef stew cooked in a red wine broth with carrot, mushroom, and a dash of aromatics, along with a side dish of sauteéd green beans done in garlic olive oil with diced tomatoes. Caprese salad with tomato and mozzarella with crusty bread followed, and after that some fruit. Throughout, Nonnina was civil, which was a rare occurrence. It was only when the espressos came out that she decided the start poking the coals. She placed a cigarette in the holder she always had and lit it. Lucy regarded her from across the table.

"We don't smoke at the table."

"Oh? That's a shame." Nonnina continued puffing away. "Those studies are all lies, you know. Cigarettes are fine."

"We don't smoke when the children are in the room," said Izzy, just as sternly. "Put it out."

"You speak too much," said Nonnina. "It's because you don't have a husband. You should get one."

Lucy got to her feet, her eyes stuck on Nonnina across the table. She leaned over, wet the tip of her index finger and her thumb on her tongue, and pinched the ash off the top of the offending cigarette. She didn't flinch. Her gaze didn't even flicker. She then wiped her fingers clean on Nonnina's napkin before sitting back down. The silence lingered.

"We don't smoke at the table," repeated Lucy, simple.

Ricky's eyes flickered between the two, and he sat back slowly, so to avoid become embroiled in whatever argument was undoubtedly about to occur. He finished his coffee quick and got to his feet, wiping his mouth with his own napkin.

" _Grazie_ , Nonnina, but I have to run now." He spoke as he paced to the door, taking his coat off the hook on the wall. "Work to do."

"But _zio_ ," complained one of the twins. "You said you would help us build a fort."

He smiled, putting one arm into his black coat. "Next time, I'll help you build a fort. The biggest fort in the _world_. Bigger than this whole house!"

"You'd be a great father, Ricardo," said Nonnina, on her feet too, beginning to clear off the plates. "But you'd have to get a wife first, wouldn't you."

She ignored the glares from Izzy and Lucy, and just looked at Ricky. His own face was hard, his smile gone entirely.

"I don't have one," he said, deciding to get right to the subject. "And no, I don't have a mistress, or a girlfriend, or both."

"Why not?"

"Because I remember certain words of _nonno's_ ," he replied with a grin and a wink, before slipping out the door. He could hear the stifled laughter from his mother and sister as he went.

He picked up the invite off the table, folding the flap of the envelope over more firmly as he headed out the door. He tucked it into his pocket once he sat into the car. It was Sunday, and the post wasn't running, so he had decided to drop it around himself. He knew where Tinsley lived, and he should probably make it known. Unsettle the guy a bit. He seemed a bit too stubborn for his liking.

* * *

Ricky parked the car on the kerb outside the house, got out, and went right up the driveway, one hand holding the envelope and the other in his pocket. It was a small house, but every house was small compared to Ricky’s. Yet, it was nicer. It was softer on the eyes, with a small wood porch and a potted plant or two. However, when he got close enough, he saw the plants were in dire need of help. He pursed his lips, placing a finger under a drying leaf and raising it slightly. Not good. He himself had always been quite fond of gardening, and his most prized possession was his patch of herbs in his own garden behind his house. He'd always liked it, even when he was young. But, he wasn’t here to garden. He left the plant and continued to the door, where he reached for the mailbox on the wall. He paused, retracting his hand. He eyed the door sidelong. He shouldn’t. But he did. He raised a fist and knocked three times, loud and clear. Then he turned aside, looking down the street. He liked the street. It had evolved over time so that no one house was truly identical to any other one now. The door opened, and he turned his head and smiled.

“Is Tinsley in?”

The woman stared at him for a moment in stunned silence. She had a pleasant face, but a hard mouth. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen you around. You’re- You’re that gangster in the papers. The mafia guy.”

His smile wavered. “Well, we don’t call it that.”

“What? You don’t call yourself the mafia?”

“No.” He tried again, quickly. “Is Tinsley in?”

“Why the hell would a guy like you be looking for Charlie?” Her cold eyes landed on the envelope. “That for him?”

“Yes. I’d like to give it to him.”

She put out a hand. “I’ll give it.”

He stared at her, unblinking. She was harsh and rude and he couldn’t possibly imagine Tinsley falling for such a person. It was unthinkable. “Is this definitely Tinsley’s house?”

“Yeah. He’s at work. As per usual. So I’ll give him that letter whenever he comes home.”

Her hand was still out, palm-up, expectant. Ricky looked down his nose at it, then back at her face. He was pretty sure she was hungover, badly. He looked back at her hand again. Then he placed the envelope in it. She snatched it away the second it touched her palm, muttered a “thanks” and shut the door. Ricky stood on the porch for a few seconds, double-checking the number on the door. It was the right address, he was sure of it. He was more astonished, however. He wandered down the steps off the porch, rubbing a hand over his mouth, letting it rest there as he let himself feel both a tad baffled and a tad disappointed. He opened his car door and glanced up and down the street, just in case a tall figure was on the horizon. It wasn’t. The disappointment grew in his chest. He didn’t let himself dwell on the source of his disappointment. He got into his car and started up the radio and pulled away from the house, and wondered exactly how Tinsley had gotten himself a wife like that. He couldn’t possibly be in love with her. Tinsley could be stubborn, but he was soft. And she'd said his name, his first name. Charlie. It suited him, but at the same time, Ricky didn't like it. He wasn't just Detective Tinsley now. All of a sudden, he was human. Ricky decided to pretend that he had never heard it.

* * *

Holly had been waiting in her car for fifteen minutes. She checked her watch again, holding it up close to her eyes. She let her hand flop back down to the steering wheel, loosely gripping it. Tinsley was late. This was surprising, as he was usually quite punctual. In fact, he hadn’t been late for anything at all so far. He was always just on time for everything, just coming around the corner, just coming down the stairs, just knocking on the door. It was appreciated.

The passenger door suddenly opened and Tinsley sat in. He had a file in his hands with papers sticking out every which way, a bit like his hair. He mumbled a _hello_ before attempting to flatten down his hair. It didn’t seem as if it had been brushed yet, and he was doing his best to do so. He had a thick healthy head of it, but it did seem to have a mind of its own.

“I have a comb in my bag,” said Holly, reaching into said bag. “If you want.”

He sniffed. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

She passed it over, pausing as she saw his face. He took the comb from her fingers, promptly turning away. “Are you okay, Tinsley?”

“Hm?” He looked at her again, and his eyes were still reddened, a bit watery. “Oh, I’m fine. Just- Just allergies.”

“Oh. What are you allergic to?”

 _My wife._ “Pollen. Pollen. In the air.” He waved his hand vaguely before starting to brush his hair. “You know how it is.”

She didn’t question it any further. She started the engine and they drove to the neighbourhood they had decided on, and Tinsley received a briefing on the way. She had been thinking over his propaganda theory, and wanted to go with his suggestion of interviewing the people. However, the mafia had some rules.

“Firstly, do not call them the mafia,” said Holly. “Do not call them mobsters, or gangsters, or anything of the like. They call themselves _La Cosa Nostra,_ meaning ‘our thing’, and any official members are called ‘made men’. They revolved around male prowess and machismo, and respect men and their wives only. They wouldn’t appreciate me, a single woman, walking up to their door and demanding answers. Therefore you will have to do the walking and talking. Yes?”

Tinsley nodded. None of the information was anything new to him. “Yes, that’s fine.”

He got out at the first row of houses and stood smoothing down his tie for a moment or two. He took a deep breath and let it out through his mouth. Then he went up the small path to the first house, and began. After the fifth house, he had gathered that the Goldsworths had everyone in the town under their thumb. They were widely respected and widely loved. They were, essentially, royalty. Tinsley stood on the street for a moment with his hands in his pockets and wondered if he should bother going any further. He scuffed the heel of his shoe off the ground a few times, looking at the next house. Its curtains had been drawn. A lot of houses suddenly had their curtains drawn. Tinsley sighed, but the sigh caught in his throat as a car cruised to a standstill in the reflection of a window. Tinsley half-turned to look at the driver, but he didn’t initiate any conversation.

Ricky had his elbow resting in his open window, and a cigarette between two fingers. His sunglasses were on and his dark hair was oh-so-perfectly windswept. He looked like he’d driven right off a movie poster. Tinsley felt the sudden surge of anger again, but he wasn’t too sure where it was coming from. He put it down to jealousy. Just jealousy.

“Morning, detective,” said Ricky. He wasn’t smiling as he took a pull of his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose. “What has you out and about on the Lord’s day of rest, hm?”

“No rest for the wicked, Mr Goldsworth,” replied Tinsley, easy, casual. He kept his distance. “I can’t help but notice you’re out and about too.”

“Oh, I was actually just at your house.” Ricky got out of the car, leaving the engine running. A car beeped behind him, but he just waved a flippant hand and showed his face. The beeping stopped. “Met your wife. Lovely woman.”

“...You were at my house.”

“Just dropping in what I said I would.” He flipped open his tin of cigarettes, holding it out. “Care for one?”

Tinsley noticed a few curtains twitching at a few windows. They were being watched. “Sure.”

He took a cigarette. He accepted Ricky’s offer of a lighter and lit it. Ricky took off his sunglasses, and his eyes were just as black as the sunglasses had been. They didn’t look away from the taller man, not for even a second.

“Have you decided on an answer to my offer, detective?”

Tinsley kept his face guarded against those sharp eyes that were attempting to cut through to his true thoughts like a razor. “I’d like to meet again. In a more private setting than this.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” Ricky smiled. “We’re both civilized men, aren’t we?”

“I’m not a fool, Mr Goldsworth. Right here, right now, my only option is to say yes.” Tinsley spoke flatly, unimpressed. “If I say no, you have a whole street of supporters to watch you tarnish my reputation out here in the open. So I’d like to-”

Ricky interrupted. “So you’re saying no.”

“I’m saying that I’m not going to fall for your wily ways,” said Tinsley coolly. “And I’m not interested in any game-playing.”

“I have a feeling you’re going to be a lot more difficult than I thought you would be.”

“That’s no one’s fault but your own.”

Ricky’s eyes narrowed, his gaze flickering over the other man’s face, as if deciding whether or not to rip it off. Then he just shrugged, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out under the heel of his shoe. “As you wish. Where would you like to meet?”

“There’s a-”

“Oh, I know a delightful diner across the river. Tony’s. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Tinsley’s face stiffened. “You mean the diner where the husband and wife were shot dead only two days ago.”

“Yes, that’s the one. It’s business as usual over there.” He grinned at Tinsley’s face, leaning forward like they were two friends gossiping. He said with a mischievous whisper: “Show your claws and I’ll show mine, detective.”

Tinsley looked down his pointed nose at him, his hand fidgeting with the cigarette by his side for a minute before going still. “Fine. We’ll meet there.”

Ricky seemed a bit surprised, straightening back up. “Will we?”

“Yes. I’ve heard the food’s delightful.” Tinsley smiled. “And we both know how to get there, which is always half the hassle. Will we say eight?”

“Seven,” replied Ricky with a bit of bite.

“Actually, six would suit me wonderfully.”

“I’m not free then. Would five do?” Ricky waved a hand, silencing any response to the question. “Oh, why the wait? Are you parked nearby?”

Tinsley’s heart skipped a few beats. “Um, no, I-”

“Then let’s go _now,_ detective.” Ricky pushed a hand into the taller man’s back, guiding him quite forcefully towards the car. “I don’t mind driving. You seem to be full of chat today, anyway. Come along, get in, get comfortable.”

Tinsley flinched as the door was slammed shut. Ricky got into the driver’s seat seconds later and released the handbrake with a hard tug and spun the steering wheel and they drove straight off. They didn’t talk. Tinsley was too busy marveling at his own stupidity, his shoulders slumped, gaze fixed ahead. Ricky spared him a grin.

“Not so chatty all of a sudden. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“I- I am uncomfortable.” Tinsley fumbled at the side of his seat before pulling the small lever and pushing his seat back. “My knees were about to go into my lungs at that rate.”

Ricky eyed him sidelong, his grin gone. “You have some stilts on you.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Tinsley looked at the restaurant they had just pulled up to. “This isn’t the diner.”

“No. No, it’s not.” Ricky cut the engine, smiling at him. “It’s much better. In fact, I’d almost say it’s a taste of the life you-” He poked him with the end of his key. “-will be living if you accept my offer.”

Tinsley didn’t move, even after the other man had gotten out of the car. Then his own door was opened, and Ricky smiled down at him. He was smiling a lot. Luckily, it was a nice smile. Tinsley got out and straightened up and closed his own door before Ricky could do it for him, a bit harder than necessary. For a second they stared at each other. Then Ricky led the way up the stone steps to the restaurant. It was a stunning place, tall ceilings and draping red curtains on the windows and white tableclothes and candles glowing softly. The tables were all occupied by men in suits, and a wife or two. The owners knew Ricky - of course they knew Ricky - and he was given a nice table for himself and his ‘associate’. Tinsley didn’t approve of the title, but he thought better than to announce himself as a detective to the room. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like anything about it. One minute he had been working away, and the next Ricky had swooped by and snatched him up and plonked him right into a place of blatant disadvantage to him. Tinsley gritted his teeth as Ricky pulled his chair out for him with exaggerated hospitality that was accompanied with a strikingly dark glare. Tinsley sat down nonetheless, his eyes following Ricky as the man swanned around to his chair and sat himself down in it. He sat at an angle, legs crossed, entirely at ease.

“Well, Tinsley. It’s all on me, so help yourself.”

Tinsley cleared his throat, sparing a glance at the menu. He hadn’t had breakfast, and he was actually quite hungry as a result. “...What’s good.”

“I’d suggest the lobster.” Ricky smiled at him, one elbow on the table and his chin resting in his hand. “Do you know how they cook lobster? They boil it alive in a pot of hot water.”

“I think I can understand how that feels now,” said Tinsley, pulling at his collar, feeling prickly all over.

“Well what about a pasta? Do you know how they make that?” Ricky had a steak knife in his hand now, holding it at such an angle that the light flashed off the sharp edge. He turned it back and forth, casual. Flash, flash, flash. “Cut it up into strips and hang it up to dry.” He suddenly flipped the knife, a subtle move, expert, the handle landing neat in his hand again. “Well?”

Tinsley stared at the knife, unblinking. “What are you doing.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Tinsley turned his gaze from the knife to Ricky’s face, his jaw set. “You’re threatening me.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not an idiot,” said Tinsley icily, pushing the menu aside. “You’re threatening me. You’re threatening my life in broad damn daylight. Now I am a _very_ patient man, Mr Goldsworth. I really am. Too patient for my own damn good. But this is where I draw the line. I-”

The waiter stopped by their table with a cool: “May I take your orders, gentlemen?”

“Not now,” said Ricky with a flick of a hand. “He’s monologuing. And he’s actually quite good at it. He has a- a powerful voice, yes?”

Tinsley’s face went red as he sat back. Then he sat forward again, glaring at the man across from him. “My answer is no.”

Ricky inclined his head at this, his eyes widening. “ _Scusami?”_

“I said my answer is no. I won’t work for you.” Tinsley got to his feet, one hand still resting on the table. “I’ve had enough disrespect this morning, and the last thing I need is to be getting disrespected at work too. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.”

Ricky got to his feet too, seeming just a whole lot shocked at the other man’s words. “You can’t just-”

A waiter paused beside them. “ _Signore,_ there’s-”

“I’m busy.”

“It’s important, it’s-”

“I just said I’m busy!”

“It’s your mother!” squeaked the waiter. “Your father has just passed away.”

Ricky went entirely still, his eyes still stuck on Tinsley’s, which mirrored his shock. His face went two shades too pale. He straightened up, eventually bringing his gaze from Tinsley and to the waiter beside him. He simply stood for a few minutes, still, even though his mind was descending into turmoil very swiftly. He let himself be led to the phone behind the bar, and put it to his ear, numb all over.

“Mamma?”

“Oh, _cucciolo_ , I’m so sorry. Your father just- He just passed away.”

Ricky didn’t feel sad. He felt stunned, and panicked, and under an immense amount of pressure. “I- I’ll be home in ten minutes. Is Izzy still there?”

“Yes, we’re all here.”

“Okay. Okay, I- Yes, I’ll be there soon.”

He put the phone down. Then he left, straight out the door. Tinsley stood where he was, wringing his hands for a few minutes and feeling strangely guilty. He also left, going down the stone steps and back into the sunny street. Ricky’s car was gone, but Holly’s was parked up across the street, having followed them for the few blocks. He hurried to tell her the news. It was, without a doubt, going to be another late night at the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
>  _plaza_ \- territory  
>  _un finocchio_ \- a f*ggot  
>  _piccoli_ \- little ones  
>  _nonno_ \- grandad  
>  _scusami?_ \- excuse me?


	6. Frutti Proibiti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gonna start adding translations to any phrases in italian i use just because i think it's fun and i'm the writer so i guess that is reason enough to do it

Lucy sat in her office, alone, where she wanted to be. She could hear the chatter from downstairs, low, respectful. The wake had brought quite a turnout, a flood of black into the house. Extended family, friends of friends, associates, and some enemies. Nonnina was being quite the centre of attention, but Lucy was okay with this. It meant she only had to look the part, not act it. She ran a black gloved hand along a black sleeved arm. It was a high-necked dress with a tight waist, and it reached down to her knees with a silk underskirt. It was perfectly modest. It would be black clothing for the few weeks, and mourning for the entire year. It was going to be a long year. She took another mouthful of her drink, allowing herself to sink into the fur shawl around her shoulders.

There was a knock at the door. Perhaps it was Isabella. Ricky had vanished first thing, and didn't appear to be around the house. He had always been difficult to pin down, to keep in one place. She supposed she had to be thankful that he had been a nice boy, and not a troublesome one. Lucy eventually said: "Come in."

The door opened just enough for Holly Horsley to slip through. If the surprise was evident, she didn't acknowledge it. She wore a black skirt suit, and her brown hair was clipped up behind her head. It had strands of grey through it now, but she seemed unbothered to dye it. Lucy let out a sharp sigh, blowing smoke aside as she stubbed out here cigarette.

"What."

"Nothing." Holly came forward, stopping at the opposite side of the desk to Lucy. "I just wanted to come by and pay my respects, but you were nowhere to be found downstairs."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because I decided I can't stand to smile and simper and act the fool in love for one more second," she said, unbothered. She lifted the bottle of wine off her desk. "Drink?"

"No. I don't drink."

"Oh, I forgot that." Lucy gave her a narrow-eyed look as she refilled her own glass. "How."

"I don't find it appealing."

"Do you smoke?"

"On occasion."

Lucy pushed her tin of cigarettes across the desk towards her. "Stop hovering and sit, woman."

Holly stopped hovering and sat. She opened the tin and retrieved a cigarette and struck a match and lit it. She let the flame chew the stick for a few second longer before waving it out, quick-sharp. "I know you won't miss your husband, Lucy. But I'm sorry all the same. I'm sure it will bring a lot of change into your life."

"Nothing I can't handle."

"And your son?"

Lucy took a mouthful of her wine. "He will be able to handle it too."

Holly took a risk. "What of the rumours?"

Lucy's eyes went sharp, her mouth hard. "What rumours?"

"The rumours about his sexuality." Holly raised a calming hand off the arm of her chair. "If it's any comfort, I'm doing my best to quell them in my department."

"They're not-"

"I don't care if they're true or not. It doesn't matter to me. If I'm going to win anything against you, I want it to be fair and square." Holly took a drag on her cigarette. "But I know they may have you concerned. As they should."

Lucy had straightened up in her seat, her grip tight on her drink. "And why is that."

Holly gave her a long look. Then she picked her bag up off the floor and placed it on her lap. She unclipped it and drew out a folded-over page of a newspaper. "It happened late last night. I thought you should know." 

Lucy stared at the paper. Then she placed her drink aside and took it and unfolded it, sitting back to read it. Her face went paler and paler, like a napkin in water. When she reached the end of the article her eyes remained open, unblinking. With careful hands, she folded the paper in half again and placed it down.

"How did they find out about him?"

"He liked poetry," said Holly dryly. "His capos regarded this as too effeminate of a quality for a man in charge."

"So they- they-"

"They deemed him a gay man, and... did that to him."

Lucy's hand went to her chest, resting in a fist against it. " _Bruti_."

"I thought you should know."

"Yes. Yes, I... Thank you." Lucy's words were murmured. "Ricky needs a wife. He does. But he won't listen."

"Is it all truly that serious?"

"La Cosa Nostra is about the men," said Lucy quietly. "It's all about machismo. Wives and mistresses are encouraged, and a man without one is... noticed."

Holly lowered her gaze. "A forced marriage seems inhumane."

"Believe you me, I know all about it." She glanced at Holly's hands. “You’re still unmarried.”

Holly’s gaze went to the lone ring around her little finger, and she used her thumb to push it in a circle. “Yes. If I get married, I have to give up my job.”

“And there’s no suitors on the horizon? Or is that too much for me to hope for.”

“I’m not going to talk about my private life,” said Holly, a hard edge to her voice. “Not with you.”

“I’ll take from that that there’s none.”

“And there’s none for you now either. A widow at forty-eight, and remarriage not encouraged within your… organization. Looks like we’ll both be bloody dowagers for the rest of our lives.”

Lucy went quiet at this, her nose wrinkling as she scowled. Holly glared right back for a few minutes, waiting for a reaction, an explosion. It didn’t come. She spoke, still cold.

“Perhaps it would be best if we stick to business, yes?”

Lucy shook her head. “ _Sei una cagna_.”

This was a sentence Holly had heard many times before, so she continued on without even flinching. “I’m devastated to hear that. I saw that Banjo is here?”

Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “Why wouldn't he be.”

Holly’s voice was as level as always. “Because he's the chief of police. But don't worry, I know he’s weak. I know he is. I know you have him wrapped around your little finger. I know he’s one of your 'associates'.”

“Well _you_ could’ve been one, but you were too high and mighty.” Lucy swirled her wine around in her glass, regarding it with interest. “I still would prefer you as my in with the Feds, dear Horsley. My late husband chose Banjo, and Banjo is a fool. You, on the other hand, are not. I’ll admit that. You have a head on your shoulders.”

“Lorenzo isn’t even cold yet and you’re already trying to take his place.” Holly gave her a long look. “We’re women. We can be as good as the men, we can be better than the men, but we can never be equal to the men. You know that as well as I do.”

Lucy held her gaze for a moment before letting it go, turning her head aside. “It’s difficult for us, isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“It’s one of the reasons I’ve kept you around, you know.”

“How kind.”

“It is.” Lucy took a drag on her cigarette, speaking on the exhale. “My lifestyle is often a lonely place for women like me. A wife. And I was lucky, you know. I was one of the ones with a husband who didn’t have ten mistresses on the side.” She paused. “I think.”

Holly observed her. “Do you miss him?”

“No. Not at all.”

A silence, filled only by the chattering crowd downstairs. “How long do you think you’ll last without him?”

Lucy took a deep breath through her nose. “Until the end.”

“And what determines the end.” Holly’s voice was quieter now. She was genuinely curious. “In your mind.”

“When all my enemies are dead.”

“Is that even possible for you?”

Lucy sounded bitter, painfully so. “No.”

Holly gave her a long look, studying her face. It betrayed no single emotion, but multiple, mixed together. A horrible way to be. “Then I suppose it’s going to go on for… quite a while, for you.”

“There’s no retiring from my job, dear Horsley. My job retires me when it’s done with me.”

Holly watched her stand up and smooth down her skirt before picking up her wine and heading for the door. Holly picked up her bag and followed behind her. She liked her, in a way. She was unpredictable, and exciting, and she provided Holly with a distraction from her usual mundane cases. Lucy led them out to the balcony that surrounded the bustling foyer below. It was black on black on black, friends and enemies and interests. Lucy saw the chief over at the refreshments, as was the place he was always found at such events.

“That should be you.”

Holly followed her gaze to the chief. “I know.”

“It should’ve been you, right from the start.”

“I know. But it’s not me.” Her brows had drawn together in a small scowl. “Because of this world.”

Lucy met her gaze, and it was determined. “Our one similarity.”

Holly tutted from behind her teeth, stepping back around her and heading for the steps. She paused on the second one, looking over her shoulder at her. Lucy was already looking back, fixing her fur shawl around her shoulders. It was a chilly autumn night. Holly spoke wryly.

“I have a feeling the damage would be ten times what it is now if we were both at the top.”

Lucy smiled. “We can only dream.”

"Mm. I'll see you at the opening."

Lucy watched the detective carve her way through the crowd back towards the chief. Holly had hardened over the last few years, hardened like a piece of coal under intense heat and pressure, although Lucy doubted this one was going to turn into a diamond anytime soon. She took another pull on her cigarette as she watched Holly clamp a hand down on the chief’s shoulder and turn him around to take the full wine glass out of his hand and set it aside sharply. The detective plucked a glass of water from the table instead and pushed it at the chief, glaring at him. Lucy stifled her smile, scanning the crowd below. She could see Isabella and the children. She could hear Nonnina from the sitting room where the casket was laid out. But no Ricky.

* * *

He had gotten dressed that morning, in black trousers and a black shirt. Then he'd received a message from a certain detective, a phone call nonetheless. _We need to talk_. Usually Ricky would have argued this, and perhaps played a game or two, but this morning he grabbed the opportunity to get out of the house. He'd left even before breakfast, getting into his Benz and sailing off down the driveway of his parent's house. He'd stayed the night with Izzy and the kids. Only Nonnina and the children shed tears.

Tinsley had proposed the park to meet. The park, on a crispy cold morning like this, would be empty. Ricky left his car close by and walked the last hundred metres or so. It was chilly. He rubbed his bare forearms.

He went right into the park and to the statue in the centre of it all. He looked to his right; there was no one around but for the reddening trees and two swans cruising around the pond. Ricky looked to his left, his breath fogging in the air. Maybe he'd gotten the time wrong.

"Hello."

Ricky looked over his shoulder, and the detective was right beside him, as casual as bedamned. He hadn't even heard him approach. For a man of his stature, he was awfully light-footed, soft-spoken. "...You're very quiet."

The man looked down at himself. The bottom half of his face disappeared into his scarf, his pointy nose resting on the red tartan fabric. "Yes."

"And you look like a detective," said Ricky through gritted teeth, eyeing the light blue shirt tucked into the dark trousers with a dark tie and a dark coat over it all. "I specifically said not to dress like a detective."

"I'm not really one for casual wear."

Ricky looked over his shoulder and then over the other one, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. "I can't risk-"

"The park's blocked off. There's two guys at each entrance."

Ricky stared at him for a moment. "So essentially, I'm trapped here."

"No. You can leave whenever you'd like. It was just a precaution I had to take, since I initiated the meeting. Protocol or something."

Ricky turned his head aside, taking a deep breath. He folded his arms across his chest. He should've at least brought a sweater, but he hadn't, so that was that. "Right. Right, well-"

"Are you cold?"

"No, I'm fine," he replied defensively.

Tinsley unwrapped his scarf, holding it out to the other man. Ricky watched his face, waiting for him to reveal that he was joking. He had to be joking. Yet his face didn't betray a smile. It was just calm, his sleepy eyes watching him, waiting for him to take it. Ricky tutted, stepping around him. He'd rather turn into a popsicle. He heard Tinsley follow a few steps after him. They walked in silence for a minute or so, their breaths fogging. The leaves had started to fall from the trees, and were still fresh enough that they were crunchy. Both Ricky and Tinsley were showing impressive self-control in their refusal to go out of the way to step on the particularly satisfactory looking ones. Ricky was still hugging himself, stubborn as an ox. When he spoke, he fought to stop his teeth from chattering.

"Did you get what I dropped to your house?"

 _Barely._ He'd only found it because he had been looking for it. His wife had designated it trash and had chucked it straight into the bin. "Yes. I got it."

"So what is there to discuss, detective? My family is opening the new library. You're invited."

"I think the question of my safety at such an event should be brought to attention."

"You'll be safe," said Ricky with a sidelong glance. "I can promise you that."

"Your promises don't mean much to me, I'm afraid."

"Well they should. I'm a man of my word."

"I know that." His gaze was lowered, thoughtful, as he scuffed the heels of his shoes off the ground with each step. "But your reliability to stick to your word isn't the issue here. It's the word itself that tends to be the issue."

"You fancy yourself a bit of a comedian, don’t you?"

"It's a heavy world, Mr Goldsworth. If I wasn't light-hearted I'd drown in it all."

"Poetic." He didn't sound too impressed. "But I don't have all morning to play word games with you."

Tinsley's slow steps wound down to a halt. "I’m sorry about your father.”

“You wouldn’t be if you’d known him.”

“I’m not extending any sympathy to him. I’m extending it to you.”

Ricky’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, flickering up and down the other man’s face. “Why.”

Tinsley shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’ve been there before.”

Ricky kept his face neutral. “Did you love your father?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Then I’m afraid that we’re both experiencing entirely different things, detective.”

“You didn’t love your father?”

“I hated him.”

Tinsley blinked. “Oh. Right.”

“He wasn’t a kind man. He was cruel, and I’m glad he’s dead.” Ricky turned his head away and continued on, arms still folded tight. “Now, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d tell me why you wanted me here.”

“The invitation. To the opening of the library.” Tinsley followed behind him, watching the back of his head. “Why invite me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have the time to list all the reasons,” said Tinsley dryly. “But I’ll try anyway. Firstly, I’m a cop. Even more so, I’m from the FBI, and I’m part of the team designated to _your_ family’s activities. Secondly, we don’t exactly get along like peas in a pod. And thirdly, I’ll be strolling right into enemy territory. Give me one reason as to why I should risk my neck like this.”

Ricky’s gaze was devilishly soft, his heavy lids smooth. “Because you want to.”

Tinsley allowed himself to flush; at least he could blame it on the cold. “You say that with enough confidence to believe it’s true.”

“It is true.”

“As an authority unto myself, I have to disagree.”

“Then why invite me here to talk?”

Tinsley paused. “I was simply curious.”

“You say that with enough confidence to believe it’s true,” said Ricky with a borderline playful smirk. “But it’s a lie. You asked me why you should risk your neck. You _wanted_ me to give you a reason, an excuse, to go.”

“Well then are you going to give me one?”

Ricky’s smile faltered slightly at the tone, but he swiftly gathered his wits again. He matched it, quiet, secret, his breath fogging in the cold air. “You should come because we’re friends, detective.”

“We’re not friends, Mr Goldsworth.”

“So you think I’m your enemy?”

Tinsley observed him for a silent minute. “I’m not too sure what you are.”

“I’m whatever you make me, Tinsley. And you get to decide right now.” Ricky took a single step closer to him, speaking low but clear. “Friend, or enemy?”

Tinsley’s mouth opened, then closed again, then opened a few minutes later. “You have a way of manipulating people’s words that makes me think you’d be as dangerous a friend as you would be an enemy.”

“Which means what?” Ricky’s face took on a teasing edge. “You want to sleep on it, do you?”

“No.”

“Good. You think too much for my liking.”

Tinsley spared a single laugh at this, not exactly amused. “I simply feel as if I don’t know you well enough to make my decision. I can see the advantages of helping you, but perhaps it would be best if I go to the opening of the library and get to know you and your situation a bit better.”

Ricky smiled. “That does seem like the smart choice." He turned away, only moving a few slow steps. "This will be our only opportunity, detective. We won't become reheated soup."

Tinsley frowned at him. "What?"

"What?"

"Reheated soup?"

Ricky paused. "Ah. That doesn't mean anything in English, no?"

"No."

"Well, it means when two people meet and then go their separate ways and then later meet again in an attempt to rekindle whatever they had." He let his hands spread as he talked, gesturing lightly with them, small waves. "Friends, business partners, lovers. _Minestra riscaldata_. Reheated soup."

"I like that." They were wandering back towards the nearest exit, casual. "What other ones do you have?"

Ricky pondered it, his eyes watching the sky. Then he turned his head and said: "Too many acts in a comedy?"

Tinsley shook his head. "No, we don't have that one."

"My sister says it to my mom a lot. It means you have too many things going on at once."

"Oh! Like having your fingers in too many pies?"

Ricky pulled a face at this, slowing down. "I don't think I've heard that one. I don't really like it. Not a pleasant image. And it makes no sense." He continued on then, not leaving it up to debate. "What about 'to make a moustache of something'. Does that exist in English?"

"No, I don't think so."

"It means to not make a fuss about something. A bit like how a moustache grows on your face, but you don't notice it. _Farsene un baffo._ "

Tinsley nodded as the two of them turned out of the park. The two cops at the gate gladly left when Tinsley waved a hand at them. "But isn't facial hair frowned upon in your... organization?"

"Yes. Entirely. It's a cultural thing, I've noticed." Ricky walked on. "Facial hair is seen as scruffy at home. Unkempt. It simply is."

Tinsley raised a hand to his own jaw, feeling the stubble. "And that applies to everyone?"

Ricky smiled at this. "Don't worry. Not everyone can carry it off."

Tinsley smiled, a small one. "And you think I can?"

"Oh, of course. You're a gritty detective, are you not?"

"I wouldn't quite say I'm gritty."

"No." Ricky looked him over, sidelong. "I wouldn't say so either."

Tinsley continued walking with him, and they chatted easily, and by the time they reached Ricky's car he was too embarrassed to admit that he'd walked the opposite way to his own car for the last ten minutes. He watched as Ricky unlocked his door, pausing.

"How did you get here?"

Tinsley rubbed at his nose, casual. "Hm?"

"You couldn't have walked from your house." Ricky looked around, a hand resting on the roof of his car. "It's much too far."

"I... got the train."

"The nearest station is _still_ too far." Ricky gave the roof a tap with his hand. "Let me give you a ride, detective. I insist."

"No, I shouldn't. I _really_ shouldn't. Doesn't look very good. For either of us."

He stood with his hands in his long coat pockets, collar turned up against the cool morning air, and for a moment he just watched Ricky, and Ricky watched back.

"That's another one," said Ricky with a wry smile. " _I frutti proibiti sono i più dolci_. Forbidden fruit is the sweetest."

Tinsley's cheeks warmed a tad. "Yes. That one I understand."

"And I also just don't want to go home. Not yet." Ricky opened his car door slowly, a hand gripping the top. "I should apologize, too. For my behaviour last night. I shouldn't have threatened you. It was very... unprofessional of me."

"It's okay. I know you must have been under some amount of pressure."

"Yes. A considerable amount." Ricky looked back into his car, but he didn't get into it. "I was going to get breakfast. Just something small."

"Oh."

"...Have you eaten this morning?"

Tinsley shook his head.

"Care to come with?" Ricky grinned. "Unless you think it wouldn't look very good."

Tinsley debated it, but the answer was going to be the same no matter which side won. "I'd like breakfast."

"Fantastic. A common goal." Ricky waited until Tinsley had sat into the passenger seat before starting the engine. "Food is one of the few delights in life, detective. It truly is. I know this lovely café - now it's in an Italian neighbourhood, but you'll be fine - and it does the most _delicious_ cornetti. The coffee is good too, but nothing I'd do a flip over."

"Sounds good."

"What do you usually have for breakfast?"

Tinsley thought about it. "Just cereal, I suppose. Maybe toast. Sometimes nothing."

Ricky almost slammed the breaks. "Sometimes nothing?! How did you grow so big?"

Tinsley rolled his eyes. "Droll."

They were one of the first ones there. It was a pokey little place, just on a corner, the type with chequered tablecloths and wicker furniture and paintings on the walls that only had importance to the owner. Thankfully, it had small windows, high-up. The owner and the waitress knew Ricky and invited them in and gushed to him in Italian. Tinsley stood by, trying to pick out any words that held even an ounce of familiarity. It didn't quite matter how hard he listened; their words were spoken too quickly and too smoothly, lilting, a pleasant rhythm.

" _È un bell'uomo, vero?"_ said the waitress, her eyes turned to Tinsley, who just tried an uncomfortable smile.

" _È anche felicemente sposato_ ," came Ricky's dry reply, giving her a mock-disapproving look. " _E, senti, tieni le mani a posto_."

She just rolled her eyes as she moved back towards the counter, on which were an abundance of pastries. Tinsley let the owner take his coat and hang it up on the hooks beside the door. The owner took his scarf too, commenting in unsteady English how he thought it was a nice scarf.

"I am sorry for speech," he said, fumbling. "I move recently."

"Well how do you say it in Italian?" asked Tinsley, holding his scarf in both hands. "I'm in your home right now, after all."

The owner smiled, his round face lighting up. " _Quella è una bella sciarpa_."

Tinsley tried his best to repeat the sentence, and he didn't mind that they laughed. _You tried,_ said the waitress from behind the till. Tinsley smiled, feeling just a bit bashful, and he turned his head and Ricky was staring at him from the table beside the wall. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't glaring either. His eyes just rested on him, thoughtful. Then the eyes turned to the table and Ricky gestured at the opposite seat to the one he was sitting down in. Tinsley sat down in it, smoothing down his tie.

"Is your father not having a wake?"

Ricky shrugged, pretending to peruse the menu. "He is. I'd rather avoid it."

"You really didn't like him."

"No. I didn't."

The waitress came over and poured coffee into the white ceramic mugs in front of them. Tinsley added milk to his and tasted it. Ricky was right; it was nothing to do a flip over. He added a spoon of sugar.

"Do you have a sweet tooth, detective?"

Tinsley nodded. "Usually not so early in the morning, but in general, yes."

"Then I know just the thing."

He ordered in Italian, simply calling across the café to the counter, and Tinsley found himself feeling surprisingly at ease in the situation. As if he had any right to be. The man sitting across from him was going to be the head of the Goldsworths - technically, he already was. Yet here they were, engaged in polite but not unpleasant chat over coffee. Tinsley realized he had been charmed into the situation with minimal effort from the other man. He held his mug in both hands, listening to Ricky talking away. Yes, the man was charming. Tinsley had been called the same before, but he himself was charming in the quiet way, the gentle way. Ricky was charming in the manner that movie stars were; confident, easy, dashing. Sweep-you-off-your-feet. Tinsley interrupted him.

"Why am I here?"

Ricky paused, blinking. "To eat. Same as me."

"But why are we both here?" Tinsley's fingers tapped against his mug. "I can't seem to shake off the oddness of the situation as well as you can."

Ricky lowered his gaze, resting his fingers lightly against his mouth, elbow on the table between them. "I don't want to go home. Not yet. Therefore I wanted to go for breakfast. But I also don't want to think about home. Not yet. Therefore I wanted to bring someone with me for breakfast. You were the only person around."

"I'm an FBI detective."

"You are, yes. But we don't have to make a whole Montague-Capulet issue about it, do we?"

Tinsley still seemed uncomfortable, as if the whole thing was a trap. "You don't have any mafioso buddies hanging around the streets?"

"Maybe I do," shrugged Ricky, crossing his legs at an angle to the table. It seemed to be his preferred way of sitting, coolly confident. "But what you call 'hanging around the streets', we call working."

"Working," said Tinsley dryly.

"It's a very complicated system, detective," said Ricky with a long look from under his lashes, his coffee hovering in front of his mouth. "Too difficult for you to comprehend, I'm afraid."

"Try me."

Ricky lowered his mug, and he kept his eyes on Tinsley's, and Tinsley kept his eyes on his, and the smiles slipped from their faces simultaneously to be replaced by a moment of mutual surprise at what had just passed between them. Then the waitress arrived and placed down the two dishes, one in front of each of them. She smiled and said something in Italian to Ricky, who barely registered it. He was too busy examining his coffee like it held all the secrets of the universe. Tinsley rubbed a hand over his mouth, taking a quiet breath. Then he looked at the pastry on his plate.

"Aren't croissants French?"

Ricky scowled. "It's not a croissant."

"It looks like one."

"It's a cornetto."

"Oh." Tinsley picked it up with appropriate delicacy. It did look quite delicious. "What's the difference?"

"The way it's made," said Ricky, suddenly seeming quieter, more reserved. "And cornettos are sweeter. They have more sugar."

He poked at his own one, looking down at it. He picked an outer layer of the pastry off, worrying away at it, like a schoolchild at a scab. Then he heard a satisfactory hum. He raised his head.

"You've finished it already?"

Tinsley spared a glance down at his empty plate. "Well, yes. It was pretty small."

"You're meant to savour it!"

"That's like asking me to savour a pea!" Tinsley spread his hands, helpless. "It was good, but-"

"It _did_ look ridiculous in your hands. As does the coffee mug." Ricky put out his own hand, palm facing the other man, and said quite determinedly: "Show me."

Tinsley stared at his hand for a moment before bringing his own forwards, pressing their palms together. His fingers reached almost half an inch over Ricky's. He watched in silence as a smile spread across Ricky's face. He had a delightful smile, ear-to-ear, and his black eyes didn't seem so dark all of a sudden.

"You must have had a giant as an ancestor."

Tinsley retracted his hand, tucking it under the table. "Perhaps. Probably."

Ricky turned his wrist with a flair to check his watch, the index finger and thumb of the other hand holding the watch face still. "Hm. I think I might be pushing my luck. I'm an hour and a half late."

Tinsley drained the end of his own coffee. "You've barely eaten anything."

"I think I'm a lot more nervous than my mind is allowing me to think I am. My appetite is non-existent, apparently." He got to his feet, smoothing down his dark shirt, making sure it was still tucked in neatly. "I can drop you to the station, if you'd like. Since I carted you out here."

"Just back to the park, if you're passing."

"I suppose I will be."

He paid for the food and left a generous tip, as he was apt to doing, before leading the way back outside. The owner handed Tinsley his coat and scarf with a warm smile. Tinsley wrapped his scarf around his neck and shrugged his coat on before following Ricky back out into the crisp air, and his breath was still fogging, but fainter now. He smiled at Ricky across the roof of the car, and Ricky smiled back.

"Thanks for that," said Tinsley once the car had pulled off down the street. "It wasn't how I expected our meeting to end, but it was pleasant."

"I wasn't quite expecting it either," said Ricky, one hand on the steering wheel and one on the radio, scanning the channels. "But yes. It was pleasant."

They drove in a comfortable silence, thanks to the crooning of the radio. Ricky took the shortcut through the back streets to the park, spinning the wheel back and forth in his hands with a nonchalance that had Tinsley's eyes unblinking, waiting for it to spin entirely out of control, and them with it.

"I hope you have an answer after the library opening," said Ricky, keeping his eyes on the leafy road. "Or better still, if you have one now."

Tinsley shook his head, giving him a sidelong look, knowing. "No, I don't have one now. Unfortunately for you, I'm not a spur of the moment kind of guy."

"Ah, that is unfortunate." Ricky pulled up alongside the kerb, keeping his hands resting on the bottom of the steering wheel. "But no later than the library, yes?"

"No later." Tinsley stepped out of the car, resting his hand on the roof of it as he leaned down to continue talking. "I suppose I can't leave you hanging indefinitely. It would be just a bit cruel of me."

Ricky gave him a long look, a smile just pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Yes. And I'm not a very patient man."

Tinsley remained where he was for a minute, one hand on top of the car door, one still on the roof. Then he said: "Good luck today."

"Thank you."

Tinsley closed over the door, stepping back around to the kerb, and he heard the engine rev up and the leaves crunch as the car cruised through them. He watched it go down the street, hands in his pockets, the cool breeze playing with his hair. What a truly charming man. He did seem genuinely kind. Tinsley took a deep breath, letting it out through his mouth in a thoughtful sigh. Then he buttoned up his coat and brought his scarf up over the tip of his pointy nose and started back across the park towards his own car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
>  _bruti_ \- brutes  
>  _sei una cagna_ \- you're a bitch  
>  _È un bell'uomo, vero?_ \- he's handsome, isn't he?  
>  _È anche felicemente sposato_ \- and also happily married  
>  _E, senti, tieni le mani a posto_ \- and, listen, keep your hands to yourself


	7. The Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word "queer" is used in this chapter in a derogatory sense because it's in the 1950s. and also since it's in the 50s there's a few derogatory terms that i might have to refer to once or twice but i'll always put a warning like so at the start, just in case people aren't in the mood to read heavier stuff and maybe want to come back to it at a different time

Every Saturday morning for the past five years, Ricky would take the twins to the park. It was a park straight from storybooks; a smooth unruffled pond in the centre on which smooth unruffled ducks cruised in slow circles, and a stone bridge that spanned its centre from which the twins would throw seeds for the ducks below. Every now and then there would be two swans, and Ricky would watch as their necks would overlap to create a clear heart, and he would allow himself to feel just a bit wistful. Then Mia and Marta would grow impatient and tug on his hands to go to the gelato stand at the far end of the pond.

It was a sweet little thing, with a striped awning and the different flavours on display behind a glass covering. It was run by a local Italian woman who never failed to be delighted at the arrival of the twins and Ricky. She would, as usual, offer the tasty treats for free - such things were frequently offered for free to the Goldsworths - and each time Ricky would politely decline the offer. He wasn't interested in taking free things from the hard-working people, only from the rich and lazy. So Mia and Marta would pick two scoops each; strawberry and vanilla for the former, and cherry and chocolate for the latter. Then he would follow them to the wicker chairs and tables beside it, and he'd sit with them and allow himself to be blissfully unbothered for an hour or so.

That was, however, before his father had passed. Now he was not so unbothered anymore, as was proven by Fran sitting across from him and the Mayor lingering by the pond in his long black coat and wide-brimmed black hat, tossing a crumb of bread to the ducks every few minutes.

"We're almost a week into September," said Fran, watching the twins grow increasingly messier as their gelato melted bit by bit. They were sat on Ricky's lap in their pastel dresses. "Isn't this about the time you stop bringing them to the park? Or did I imagine that argument with Isabella about where they'd gotten their colds from?"

Ricky grinned, his arms resting around the twins to make sure they didn’t topple. “Fall is on the horizon, and then winter, and then you’ll be dreaming of days when the sun was out and the ground was warm. So yes, we’re having gelato.”

Fran rolled her eyes, poking at her own one. “I wouldn’t have had _pranzo_ if I knew we were getting ice cream. I thought we were going to your father’s funeral.”

“It’s on tomorrow morning,” said Ricky dismissively, before accepting a spoon of strawberry gelato from Mia. “Mm, yum. _Un altro, per favore_.” She gave him another plastic spoonful. “Ah, _delizioso_.”

Fran eyed the twins. “Are they not going to their _nonno’s_ funeral?”

“It’s too dark,” said Ricky, giving her a meaningful look. “They’re kids. They don’t have to see such morbid things. They went to the wake and gave his forehead a kiss and that’s difficult enough for two toddlers, okay?”

“They’ll have to learn someday.”

“And today is not that day,” said Ricky firmly. He let the twins clamber off him and go towards the pond to terrorize some ducks, bright cups of gelato in hand. The Mayor stood aside. “Isabella didn’t want them to be around while it was all so depressing, and I gladly volunteered to help out.”

Fran raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re viewing this as more of a celebration than anything else, aren’t you.”

“And why in the world shouldn’t I?” He took his tin of cigarettes from his pocket, offering Fran one before taking one himself. “A man who has been cruel to me my entire life is dead. It’s over.”

“No, it’s not.” She struck a match and lit her cigarette, speaking around it. “He’s left all the pressures of his life to you.”

Ricky’s brows drew into a deeper frown, and he let his cigarette rest unlit between his lips. “Yes, well, that’s all he left to me.”

Fran lowered her sunglasses down her nose. “What?”

Ricky shrugged. “That’s all he left me.”

“Nothing else?”

“Bits and pieces for Izzy and my mom, but that was it.” Ricky lit his cigarette behind a cupped hand, sitting back and exhaling in a harsh sigh. “He just left me a lifetime of worry.”

Fran didn't quite know how to respond. She opened the cuff of her sleeve and closed it again. "Any advancement with the new informant?"

Ricky shrugged, sitting back and crossing his legs, his wrist resting on the edge of the table. "I'm working on him. Why? Did you hear something?"

"I've been doing some background, and there's a few rumours about him," she said, chin resting in her hand. "Apparently he's basically celibate."

Ricky frowned. "What? He's married."

"I know. With no kids."

"I think I might understand why," muttered Ricky. "I met his wife."

"And?"

"...Not very nice. Quite rude. Harsh."

"Oh. Well, then I'm even more surprised. There's some women he's worked with, a secretary or two, and then maybe one or two in cafés and the like, and they've all tried their luck." She raised her brows. "To no avail. He just isn't interested."

Ricky pursed his lips, examining the slowly fizzling tip of his cigarette. "That is strange. I'd assume he'd have his pick of most ladies."

"I'd assume so too."

"He does seem quite the gentleman, though." Ricky shrugged his shoulders, putting his cigarette back between his lips. "Which I won't hold against him, I suppose."

The Mayor arrived in his usual sweep of a black coat and took the seat to his left. He had a newspaper in hand, a flimsy broadsheet which crackled with the slightest touch.

"Well, would you look at this. Antonio Bosetti was murdered last night. No, I'm mistaken, two nights ago."

Ricky and Fran stared at him for a moment. Then Ricky took the paper, arranging it in front of him and following the Mayor's pointed finger to the article. He hadn't known Antonio; he was a son from a different family, a smaller family, and they never had much need to come together. But Ricky had heard the rumours. Sure, he had the same rumours about himself.

" _Mr Bosetti was found dead on the floor of his office by his maid. It appeared he had been beaten to death with multiple blows to the head evident_." His eyes scanned the following words, and he hesitated a moment. " _A suspected motive is the inter-familial rumours that Mr Bosetti was a homosexual man, a trait particularly detested by the mafia organization. An investigation has been launched..."_

He dwindled off, allowing the Mayor and Fran to read the rest of the article over a shoulder each. He felt numb all over, oblivious to the world around him. Then a sticky hand pulled on his arm, and he looked down to find Marta smiling up at him. 

" _Zio,_ the ducks took Mia's gelato cup and now she's crying."

"Oh. That's a tragedy." He got to his feet, giving her head a pat. "Mayor, will you look after that? I'm just going to... go for a quick walk."

He raked a hand through his hair as he took off in a random direction, his other hand on his hip. His chest felt tight, his heart clenched. When he was safely hidden from view behind some elms, he cupped his hands over his mouth and let himself feel truly terrified, so much so that his eyes began to water, brim with tears. He had to allow himself to feel such things when it was demanded. If he didn't, if he held it back, one day he would simply explode. He wasn't made to be reserved and quiet. So first, he would cry. Then, he would think.

He continued walking, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands, muttering curses to himself. He was at a more isolated part of the park, a small clearing in which sat a single bench which was usually occupied by a shy couple and their whispers, and Cupid awaiting in the trees above. Ricky spotted the bench, and paused. 

The detective was sitting alone under a tree with fiery leaves. A book was on his crossed legs, held open by a gentle hand, fingertips just pressed to the spine where the pages met. He seemed quite lax, an elbow resting on the back of the seat, and he wasn’t wearing his usual scarf and coat, instead doing what the rest of the city was doing and basking in one of the last few days of genuine sunshine they’d see this year. He was quite trim without the coat, narrow-waisted, slim-hipped, and overall quite gracile. He didn’t look up when Ricky stopped near him, and instead continued on to turn a page with his willowy fingers. Ricky cleared his throat, lightly. Tinsley raised his head, his eyes still bearing that dreamlike glaze that showed he was still in whatever world was between the pages in front of him. Then they sharpened and he scrambled to his feet like a schoolboy in front of the principal.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hi, I-” He paused, holding his book in both hands. Then he extended one to be shaken. “Hello.”

“There’s no need to stand,” said Ricky, shaking the hand nonetheless. “I’m not royalty.”

“Yes, I, um…” He looked down at himself, as if only realizing he was on his feet. “I suppose you’re not.”

Ricky glanced about. "On your break?"

"Yes."

"Nice spot to spend it."

"The rare time I get a chance."

Ricky let a hand drift out, nudging the book so he could read the cover. _"Quatrefoil_. I've never heard of it. Is it any good?"

Tinsley's face went red, and he immediately looked down at the book in his hands. "Uh, it's... Yeah.”

Ricky raised his brows expectantly. "Well? What's it about?"

"It's- It's about-" 

“I do like to read, you know. And I should probably start reading English novels again. They really helped me when I was learning.”

Tinsley hummed and hawed for a moment, fingers drumming out tattoos into the book cover. "It's quite complicated. I'm not even done yet. In fact it’s actually very boring. So-"

"Can I read the back?"

Tinsley stared at him as if he'd just been told the date and time of his death. "No."

Ricky blinked at this, withdrawing his hand a tad, fingers curling inward. "Oh. Why not?"

"Because I have to go." He gave his wrist a deft turn so that his watch flashed in the sunlight. "Time's ticking."

And with that, Tinsley got his bag off the bench and dropped the book in and positively fled with a small and uncomfortable smile. Ricky watched him go; he’d never seen him walk at such a clipped pace before, back straight, as if someone was about to come up behind him and take him by surprise. But, had Tinsley known Ricky better at that moment in time, he would have known that Ricky wouldn't let his curiosity dwindle just because of the end of a conversation, especially as Ricky was currently in quite the mood for a distraction. So Ricky turned the opposite way, and took the turn for the closest bookshop.

It was a simple one-roomed ground-floor building. Upon entrance, a bell would tinkle, for what reason no one was too sure, seeing as the desk was directly across the room from said entrance. To the left, there was a bookcase that simply covered the wall from side to side and top to bottom, and the same to the right, and the same behind the desk. At this desk sat a man who seemed to have grown from the very furniture he sat in. He was small and wizened and was currently in the process of rebinding a book. Ricky watched him for a moment, watched how his knobbly little hands gently pried the spine of the book away from the rest, with enough delicacy to not remove the pages from the hinges, and then set about measuring and calculating. Ricky cleared his throat.

"Good morning. I was wondering if I could inquire about a book?"

"Well this is a bookshop," said the old man from around the pipe in his mouth.

Ricky's face fell flat. "I was simply being polite. My apologies."

"Not many your age still have manners," came the grumbled response. A flickering once-over with beady eyes followed. "And not many from your background, either."

Ricky's face remained neutral, but his eyes took on a hard glint. "My background?"

"You're that Goldsworth boy, aren't you? From that Italian mafia family. Yes, you are. I've seen your pretty face in the papers." A sneering laugh. "You're prettier than half the women in this city, you are. Give us a smile, toots."

Ricky watched him with blatant disdain. "Very entertaining, old man. But before I truly lose my patience, I'd like to know if you've heard of a certain book. _Quatrefoil."_

The old man shook his head, going back to his binding. "Nope. We don't sell that sort of stuff."

"It's a book, and as you said, this is a bookshop."

"We don't sell that sort of stuff," repeated the old man, harder. "Immoral. And disgusting."

"Immoral? How so?"

"Because it's about two queers," said the old man with a tut. "Load of rot."

Ricky went quiet. He shouldn't ask any further. But he did. "As in... two men?"

"Yes. Two men who break the natural law of things. The natural order." A sharp shake of his head. "No room for garbage books like that in here. No."

Ricky didn't respond for a moment. Then he just turned on his heel and left.

* * *

The office was quiet but for the tick-tack of Darla's typewriter, and the occasional _brrring_ as she pushed the roller back to the left every minute or so. Tinsley seemed to be content to do out his own reports, but Holly had always loved dictating hers, leaving hours of work at a time for Darla. Thankfully, Darla didn't quite mind coming in earlier than she had to, especially recently. She may or may not have developed the slightest of crushes on a certain new coworker.

Tinsley would arrive at half seven on the dot, every morning, no matter how late he'd left work the night before. Not that he would arrive bushy-tailed and bright-eyed. He'd usually be quite bleary, with his hair ruffled, and he was rarely freshly-shaven, if ever. Some mornings he'd arrive with his tie not even done, or his collar not even buttoned, but he had the soft charm and the gentle looks to get away with it. And Darla found him indescribably attractive. She was not the only one in the building to think so. Not that he knew, but behind his back he was referred to as 'that new detective, oh you know the one, the _handsome_ one' which would get a round of nods as the connection was quickly made. She almost wished he'd ask her to do his reports, or to make his coffee, because he did have the most warm and pleasant of voices. But however, he was married, as was evident by the ring on his finger which he turned and twisted frequently. She wondered if his wife knew how lucky she was.

He came back from his lunch break a bit early. His cheeks were a light pink, which she supposed was due to the wind outside. He dumped his bag down on his desk and gave her a quick smile before vanishing into the kitchenette. She heard a kettle begin to boil, and the sharp steps of someone pacing back and forth on the tiles. His voice called out.

"Coffee, Darla?"

She blushed at the offer. "No thanks!"

Minutes later he reappeared, and the mug looked small in his hand. Everything did. He sat down and watched the steam drifting up from the hot coffee, his gaze distant. Darla got fed-up with the only sound in the room being her fingers hitting the typewriter.

"Holly's gone on home," she said. "I don't know if she told you."

Tinsley's head lifted. "Holly's not back? For the afternoon?"

"No, not for the rest of the day." Darla's typewriter _brrring_ 'd before the tick-tacking started again. "Feels like a damn holiday."

Tinsley got up from his desk, moving around it to stand more toward the centre of the room. "Is it awfully unethical of me to ask you to keep a secret from her?"

Darla stopped typing. "Oh, me? Not at all. In fact, I'd love to keep a secret from her."

"I need to go out and fix a mistake I made," he said, picking up his bag and taking a single gulp of his coffee. "I - oh, ouch, hot - I should be back in an hour or so. I might even be back in five minutes. But just don't tell Holly."

She nodded. "Sure. No problem."

He threw her a wink as he passed by. "Thanks. I won't forget it."

Out the door he went and straight to his car. He wasn't sure whether or not he was making a mistake worse, but he had to explain. He had to explain about the book. He couldn't have anyone thinking he might be gay. He just couldn't. Especially not Ricky Goldsworth; he knew what the mafia's view on the subject was. He had to clear it up now. Quick-sharp.

He pulled up to Ricky's house, across the street. He knew he shouldn't just go in the front door, but he had no other choice as of yet, and it was unlocked. He went in, closing the door over behind him. The place was silent.

Tinsley crept through the kitchen, his hands already half-raised, ready for someone to come around the corner and whip out a gun at the sight of him. No one did. The place was entirely quiet but for the expensive-looking wooden record player on the counter beside the kitchen sink, under the open window. Tinsley wandered over to it, watching the record whirring away, the needle running smooth. It was playing a Bobby Darin song, the chirpy tune of _Beyond The Sea._ On the windowsill beside the record player was a small planter, in which were cherry tomatoes growing on the vine. They were green, yet to bloom into their rich reds. Beyond them was a patch of dirt beside the path, in which were rows of leafy plants. And beyond the sea of green lawn was Ricky, knelt down in front of a flowerbed, seemingly working away. The guy seemed to be enjoying some private time. Gardening. From Tinsley’s experience and from what he’d read, only kind people gardened. People who gardened would give more than they received, as that was what they were used to. They would put in hours of work watering and weeding and churning soil, and in return they would get a pretty garden, and that was enough for them. Tinsley wondered if he should just leave. Instead he stepped out through the open patio doors, taking a moment to loosen his tie due to the low but intense sun, as was typical of such early days in autumn.

He followed the paved path down towards the flower bed; its edges had been cut back, neat, and little lumps of dirt and grass still lay about. Ricky was in casual clothes, just a simple white t-shirt and dark trousers, and a pair of thick gardening gloves. He was wearing sunglasses in an attempt to keep the glare off his eyes. On the grass beside him were a few tools - a small trowel, and some pruners. The skin on his arms was glistening in the sunlight. He must have been outside for a while. Tinsley stopped beside him, waiting. Ricky didn’t look up, just continued picking weeds from the soil like they were each the cause of all his problems. After a minute he sighed harshly, turning his head with a: “Well, _che cosa vuoi adesso?”_

He went quiet abruptly and sat back on his knees. Then he took hold of one arm of his sunglasses and pushed them back into his curls, squinting up at him. His face and neck was shiny with sweat, but just like everything else, he could carry it off. “Oh. Sorry. I thought it might be someone else.”

“It’s okay.” Tinsley looked at the streak of dirt the man had accidentally just rubbed onto his cheek as he’d taken off his sunglasses. “I didn’t know people gardened in fall.”

“Fall’s the time to clean up.” Ricky got to his feet, dusting one mucky glove off the other. “You have to stay vigilant during the fall. That’s when all the leaves will clog up the ground.”

Tinsley glanced around. “I think wildlife need the dead leaves during the winter.”

Ricky’s face fell. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me that.”

"I read that you're supposed to leave the dead leaves underneath hedgerows," said Tinsley. "So that hedgehogs and the like can use them for warmth."

"You read so many things, but I have a feeling you rarely do what you read about."

"That's why I read so much. I don't have to put myself at risk." He observed the flowerbed. "Why do you garden so much?"

Ricky went quiet, his face neutral and his eyes also on the plants. Weighing options in his head. The truth, or a lie. "...A lot of my job revolves around taking lives away. Sometimes I find it comforting to know that I… That I am capable of giving life to something and nurturing it, that my hands can be as good at caring as they are at… other things."

Tinsley watched him for a moment with soft eyes, hands in his pockets. "You're very frustrating, you know."

"Why is that?"

"I know I ought not to like you, but I can't help but find you quite pleasant to be around."

Colour rushed to Ricky's face, and his lips pressed into a surprisingly bashful smile. "Oh. Oh, well, thank you."

"It's okay."

Ricky lingered for a few beats before pulling off his gloves and moving back towards the house. "Stay there, I'll be back in a second or two."

Tinsley did as he was told. He didn't mind. It was a warm day and the leaves rustled gently and the music from the record player melted into the breeze so that it found its way to Tinsley quite softly indeed. Ricky came back down the path with a cloth sack, and set it down on the grass. Tinsley watched him determinedly pull the gloves back on.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to collect the leaves and put them under the hedges out the front," said Ricky, simply. "I won't throw them away if I don't have to."

"...That's very kind of you."

Ricky smiled, knocking his sunglasses from his hair back to his eyes with a flippant finger. "You can help too, if you're feeling particularly kind today."

"I'm not an outdoorsy type, I'm afraid. I don't like getting my stuff dirty. I know, I know, it's fussy of me, but…" He looked at the dirt on Ricky's cheek again. "You have dirt on your face. It's been annoying me for the past ten minutes. I'm sorry, I had to say it."

Ricky laughed, a bright sound. "Well then by all means, eradicate it."

Tinsley did so. He placed the tips of his fingers ever so lightly under Ricky's chin and tilted his head the appropriate amount before brushing at the dirt with his thumb. It had dried enough so that it simply crumbled away. Ricky watched the other man's face in its proximity; his lashes were soft, almost feathery, doe-like, and up close he had laughter lines starting at their outer corners. His skin looked soft too, and smooth. It was strange; he had the height and stature of the heroes in stories, yet up close he shared many similarities with the damsels too.

Tinsley withdrew his hands, brushing the dried dirt away between thumb and forefinger. "There we go. Spick and span."

Ricky smiled distractedly. Then he looked at the flowerbeds. Then he looked back at Tinsley. "It's warm. Do you want a drink?"

Tinsley checked his watch. "Oh, it's a bit early in the day for me. I-"

"Not alcoholic. We have lemonade."

Tinsley pondered it. "Actually, yes. That'd be lovely."

Ricky led the way back inside, tossing his gloves onto the outside table as he passed by. He did everything with a confident nonchalance, and Tinsley couldn't help but notice the swagger with which he walked. He'd noticed the first time he'd seen him, at the press conference. It was all in the hips, which were a bit clearer now due to the t-shirt he was wearing in lieu of a shirt. They tended to make most men look shabby, or swamped, but not Ricky. He filled it out quite perfectly. Tinsley quickly turned his head away, as if attempting to throw his thoughts out of his skull.

“What brought you down anyway?” Ricky went to the cupboard and then to the fridge, which he bumped closed with his hip before carrying the jug and two glasses to the island in the middle of the kitchen. “I thought I had a free evening, but perhaps not.”

Tinsley accepted the offer of the cool glass of lemonade. He took a mouthful, and it was sweet. “I just… I wanted to discuss something that was worrying me.”

“Yes?” Ricky put the jug back in the fridge. “What was it?”

“That, um, that book I was reading.” Tinsley took a deep breath, his shoulders rising. “I, well, I read books about everything. Everything and anything. Frequently about things I can’t relate to. I read books about murderers and books about kings and books about- about all sorts.”

Ricky was watching him, almost expectantly. “Yes?”

“The book… The book I was reading earlier...” Tinsley’s hands slid around his drink, fingers interlocking. “It was a book about… something I can’t relate to. I was simply interested. I just like to know about what’s going on in the world. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t get the, um, the wrong idea.”

Ricky’s face had a strange look on it. It was as if he was disappointed, but at the same time, not surprised. He quickly covered it up with a flippant raise of his eyebrows. “The book is about two men who love each other. I know.”

Tinsley flushed instantly. “Yes. Yes, I know, but- but I’m not. I’m not like them. I don’t want anyone to think that. I- I- It could damage my life if such rumours got out. I just wanted to make sure you understand, that I’m not- I’m not-”

“I understand,” said Ricky, and that was all he said.

Tinsley lingered for a moment. "Okay. Okay, I just wanted to make it clear."

"You've made it clear." Ricky glanced at his watch, half-hearted. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave. I have a funeral bright and early in the morning."

Tinsley swallowed, seeming a bit concerned. "Okay. I just felt like-"

"And don't come in the front door again," said Ricky, and he stepped out into the garden and closed the patio doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _pranzo_ \- lunch  
>  _Un altro, per favore_ \- another one, please  
>  _zio_ \- uncle  
>  _che cosa vuoi adesso?_ \- what do you want now?
> 
> big thanks to @angelshavethetardis on tumblr for translation help !!


	8. Judge, Jury, Executioner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yah sorry for taking so long to upload, got Shit going on. but here u go. bonn app and knee :)

Ricky led the way into the church, and the waft of flowers hit instantly. He was sick of the damn flowers, but he had been expecting it. Whoever sent the biggest arrangement cared the most, apparently. He just found them a nuisance. They got in the way, and the abundance of lilies threatening to stain his clothing with yellow streaks from their anthers.

Nonetheless, he shook hands and smiled and accepted all sorts of sympathies from porcine men in suits and wives with ridiculous hats. He heard the term ‘Don’ being uttered once or twice, but he ignored it for now. It was too soon, and he didn’t want to over-complicate the funeral. So he got the priest to usher everyone to their seats quick-sharp, and sat alongside his mother and sister and nieces and nephew. They each read a prayer, but Ricky found it difficult to convey sadness in the moment. While up at the stand, he spared a look at the open casket, and his father’s waxy face struck no chord of sympathy in him. He had never expected anything less.

But then, something unexpected did happen, during the reception afterwards. The man and wife of the Bosetti family asked him for a chance to speak, which he agreed to, seeing as it would get him away from the insincerity of the social norms he was currently being forced into. He led them to one of the clergy’s offices, with permission from the priest. It wasn’t much to his taste; too gloomy, and too many crucifixes. He gestured at the seats, but remained standing himself. He pulled at his tie, raising his chin as he did so.

“What can I do for you, _signore e signora_ Bosetti.” He looked from one to the other. “And I’m sorry for your loss. Antonio didn’t deserve such a death.”

The husband took a deep breath, brushing his hands down his trouser legs. “Do you mind if we speak in Italian? The clergy here don’t speak the language, and it’s something of great importance we wish to discuss.”

Ricky turned his head at this, curious. “ _Of course, that’s not a problem. I assume it must be a private matter, then?”_

 _“Yes. Yes, it-”_ The wife raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Her eyes were tearful, red enough to show that it wasn’t the first time today. _“Our boy. Our baby boy. He was- He was taken from us before his time. He was taken away.”_

 _“We’ve come to ask for justice,”_ said the husband, reaching a hand aside to hold his wife’s, tight. _“Justice for our son. What was done to him was villainous, without reason. Savagery.”_

Ricky opened his mouth to respond, to say that there wasn’t much he could do, to direct them to his father. His father. Stone cold in a casket. _“...You want me to give you permission to act?”_

 _“Sangue chiama sangue._ Blood cries out for blood. It’s an old saying, of the old country.” The wife sniffled again, but her face was a glare. _“Our blood cries out for his. For the man who killed our son.”_

Ricky wanted to reply instantly; yes, yes, kill the man who killed your son. But he didn’t. He kept his voice level. _“Who?”_

 _“_ Luca Calvi. _A rotten son of a bitch.”_ The husband’s free hand clenched into a fist, white-knuckled. _“He has taken the light from our lives. Now we want nothing more than to take the light from his eyes. Please, Don Ricardo, give us your blessing.”_

Ricky froze at the title, his hand pausing in fixing his sleeve cuff. Don. The godfather. The head of the family. “ _My blessing?”_

 _“Don Ricardo, please.”_ The husband suddenly got to his knee in front of him, taking Ricky’s hand and pressing a kiss to his signet ring, keeping his head ducked. _“For my family. For my sanity. I need to have peace of mind.”_

Ricky looked down at him, somewhat in shock, his mouth parted. He looked at the wife, at the furious tears in her eyes. They were both dressed head-to-toe in black, today for his father’s funeral, tomorrow for their son’s. Ricky said: _“No.”_

The Bosettis looked up at once, eyes wide. The husband got to his feet. “ _No?!”_

 _“No. Bury your son. Keep him in your hearts and minds, with nothing to distract you.”_ Ricky’s gaze went distant. _“I will take care of Luca. I owe it to you for failing to prevent this attack from happening.”_

The wife got to her feet, her face blank with surprise. _“I- This is an honour, Don Ricardo. Thank you._ ” She also took his hand, bowing to press a kiss to the ring. _“It will never be forgotten. Never.”_

Ricky allowed them to both kiss him on the cheek, and they almost bowed out of the room, heads ducked. He eventually followed.

His mother, his sister, and his grandmother were waiting impatiently by the family car, each in their black netted veils. For now, they were respectful, quiet. But the second the car door closed, that changed.

"It feels like we have been here for hours," said Nonnina, adjusting her black shawl around her shoulders. "I swear that priest is being paid a penny per word."

"It will be over soon," said Izzy, weary. "And then we can go home and go back to bed."

"It's been a tiring day." Lucy snapped her pocket mirror shut, finished tidying up her lipstick. "What did the Bosettis want, Ricardo?"

He rolled his eyes. "Trust you not to miss a thing."

"I never do."

"They wanted to offer me their condolences, and I wanted to offer them mine," he replied coolly. "For their son."

"Another funeral to go to," muttered Lucy. "It's all quite inconvenient."

"Oh _poor_ you, mamma," he said, his voice hard and cold as ice. "You had to reschedule a nail appointment so you could attend the funeral of a man who was murdered. I hope you recover from your struggle soon."

She tutted. "It wasn't a nail appointment, it was a meeting."

"You've moved on from your husband that soon, have you?" said Nonnina with a sidelong look from behind her sunglasses. Lucy threw her a poisonous glare.

"Let's try and get through today without any arguments," said Izzy, eyes closed and gloved hands folded on her lap. "Just today. That's all."

So they all shut up, and stayed shut up. They remained at the front of the umbrella-covered crowd, watching the shiny black coffin being lowered into the earth. The priest droned on, but for once Ricky found himself listening, listening to the words.

"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground," said the priest, voice just audible over the pattering rain. "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ."

The congregation murmured, _Amen._

Ricky moved forward to where the priest stood with a golden bowl with carvings delicate enough to be a work of art, and in it was naught but dirt. Soil. It had gone damp because of the rain. Ricky took a handful, his gaze already back on the coffin in the ground, six feet below. He put his hand out over it, and it sprang open with a bit more enthusiasm than would be normal in such a situation. The soil landed on the coffin, symbolizing the end, and Ricky stood above, anew. He waited for a minute before turning back around and walking back to his family, where Lucy and Nonnina were currently trying to out-act each other with the crying and the grieving and the use of handkerchiefs for their tears. The crowd behind them seemed passive, a bit fed up of standing in the rain, but a few faces caught Ricky's eye, and they didn't look too happy. He wasn't sure why, so he just threw them a dark look as he turned his back on them. God, he needed a drink. And somewhere quiet, private, where no one he knew would come prying. He knew just the place.

* * *

His wife hadn't come home last night, but then again, she never did on a Saturday. He often wondered where she stayed on such nights, but he was also a smidgen unbothered. An empty house on a Sunday morning meant he could walk around with floorboards under his feet, instead of the usual eggshells. So he got up and fetched his dark dressing gown and fumbled around for his glasses before mooching off to the kitchen.

He opened up the back door, just to let some air in. It was raining outside, a delicate mist, glistening. He stood and pondered for a few minutes. He had had the strangest dream. It had been about a man. A man that was hard and strong like a marble statue, that was like an image painted in oils. He had been like a ray of sun, like a flash of gold. He had been warm to touch, like a flame. He hadn't had a face. _He_. Yes, it had been a man. Although it hadn't been sexual in nature, it hadn't been a normal dream either. It seemed like it should have been nonsensical, but it wasn't. Tinsley stopped himself from following the line of thought, straightening up and walking back inside, but it followed him, plagued him. He stood at the sink and washed his hands, for longer than was necessary. He splashed some of the cold water on his face before getting a towel and patting it all dry. Then he boiled the kettle for coffee. He must stay busy now. He must stay busy for the rest of the day, the week, the month, however long it took. He mustn't let such thoughts run amok and have free reign. He mustn't think about the man in his dream.

He went upstairs, to the small room he had deemed his library. It wasn't exactly overwhelming, or impressive in any way, but he enjoyed it. It had a few bookshelves and most of them were almost full. There was a single armchair under the far window, with a dainty coffee table beside it, on which was a lamp and a mug he had forgotten to wash. And even more importantly, his wife didn't care for literature, so she rarely wandered in. It was a haven.

He found his book and wandered back downstairs, his slippers slapping against the steps. He passed by the hall mirror and he had to laugh. He looked like he'd been possessed by an eighty year old man, in his dressing gown and flannel pajamas, and his face unshaven and hair standing up and glasses just a bit wonky on his nose. He'd never been one of those men who somehow looked pristine at all times. Even when just wearing a shirt, it seemed to come untucked at various times during the day. He wasn't like Ricky Goldsworth and his type, who swanned around all prim and perfect, with rarely a hair out of place - and if a hair _was_ out of place, it was sure to be out of place on purpose.

Tinsley mentally cursed his wandering thoughts, going into the kitchen and making his coffee.

He decided to treat himself this early Sunday morning and add some creamer to his coffee. He had to hide it away, as his wife had a habit of finishing foods and then not bothering to replace them, leaving empty jars of jam and the last scrapings of butter for Tinsley to find when he was craving such foods. He brought his coffee out the back and sat at the table and read his book for a while. The rain pattered lightly on the covering above. He dreamed about how it would be to live alone sometimes, and on the rare occasions he was alone in the house, he knew it was what he wanted more than anything. Just some peace and quiet.

A blackbird fluttered onto the grass a few feet away, and chased a bee for a few minutes. Tinsley watched it darting back and forth with its bright orange beak out like a skewer. Could a blackbird even eat a bee without being stung? It did seem to want it, however, and he doubted a sting would deter it now or any time.

"Everything we want has a sting in its tail," muttered Tinsley to himself, bringing his mug to his mouth.

After a few minutes, he heard the phone ringing. He waited for it to ring out, but it went on for too long to be ignored. He sighed heavily and laid his book flat on the table and went inside. When he answered it, a voice snapped at him.

"Charlie? What the hell took you so long to answer?" His wife went on without waiting for a reply. "I'm having friends over tonight. It's going to go on late. You have to find somewhere to be."

His shoulders slumped. "I have work in the morning."

"I don't want you under our feet," she continued on without pause. "Find somewhere to sit for a few hours. Maybe go find your new pretty friend."

Tinsley's brows drew together. "What?"

"The gangster one who called around a few days ago." She snorted. "He's pretty as a doe-eyed whore. And look at you, fraternizing with the enemy. Shame on you."

"I'm not-" He sighed harshly. "Fine. Whatever. I'll be out of your hair."

He hung up, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. Her friends were bad people in all their own delightfully unique ways, but they all shared the most awful habit of pinching at him when he walked past, or whistling at him when he dared enter his own kitchen. Now that he thought about it, it would be much, _much_ better to be out of the house. And anyway, he was beginning to want a drink.

He got dressed in a shirt and trousers and looped on a tie and picked up his book and bag and swept up his umbrella as he headed outside. He knew a place, somewhere quiet, private, where no one he knew would come prying. It was a pokey bar under a closed office, a bit dark and dingy, but what was more important was that it wasn't popular. It wasn't bustling with people or bursting at the seams with crowds. It was just a dark wood bar, a few oil lamps along the deep red walls, some tables and chairs dotted around, and Ricky Goldsworth sitting across the room. Tinsley froze in place.

He was sat at a table by the wall, under a smoothly glowing oil lamp. He was seemingly alone, lounging back with his legs crossed in a figure four. Well, lounging as a leopard lounges in a tree; relaxed until provoked. There was only one drink in front of him, well, one full one, and then an empty glass to his left. There was also an ashtray in front of him, and in his hand was a cigarette smoking away. His head was turned aside, gaze low and distant, and his dark brows drawn together in the beginnings of a frown. He was thinking, and he didn’t like what he was thinking about. Tinsley hesitated, smoothing his tie as he lingered in the entrance. He should just leave, turn tail and flee. No, he should offer his sympathies, his condolences, stay professional. Or would that just be asking for trouble? Ricky appeared to be in quite the mood, a storm cloud over his head.

Without much warning, Ricky turned his head, and his dark eyes landed on Tinsley’s as if he knew he’d been there the entire time. The man’s face didn’t change a bit, and Tinsley wondered if he was even seeing him, or if he was looking right through him. Tinsley risked moving a step, and Ricky’s eyes followed with deadly accuracy. So he was seeing him alright. Tinsley took another step, and another, and before long he was right at Ricky’s table, close enough that he could almost feel the man’s gaze piercing his skin. Tinsley bit on his lip, his fingertips giving the table a single light tap. He opened his mouth.

“I-”

“What.” Ricky tilted his head aside, brows raised expectantly. “I don’t have all damn night.”

Tinsley looked at the ashtray, then at the empty glass, then the full one, and then back at Ricky. “Are you sure?”

Ricky’s jaw clenched, sharpening along the edges. “Just say whatever you came to say, and then leave me alone. I've had a long day, and I don't need you to make it longer.”

Tinsley turned his gaze away, wondering why he even bothered being nice sometimes. “I guess I- I just…” He went quiet.

Ricky’s eyes narrowed. “I hate when you do that.”

“What?”

“When you don’t finish your sentences. Just spit it out.”

Tinsley looked at him, his fingertips still just resting on the table. “Did I do something?”

Ricky didn’t respond for a moment, as if waiting for the detective to continue. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“You’re acting differently. Toward me.”

“You don’t know me,” said Ricky dismissively. “I’m not acting in any way different to how I usually act.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” came the fierce response. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone.”

“Your father's funeral was this morning. You shouldn’t be alone.”

Ricky let out his cigarette smoke in a harsh exhale of disbelief. “And I asked for your opinion on the subject when, exactly?”

“You asked me to finish my sentences.”

“You’re infuriating.”

Tinsley let out a sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck with a tired hand. “You know, I like this bar. They don’t play the music too loud, and the drinks are reasonable, and it opens late. So I’m going to stay.” He put his book down in front of the chair opposite Ricky. “I’m going to stay here.”

Ricky inhaled sharply at the insolence, his eyes widening an inch. “You’ll do no such thing! Sit somewhere else.”

“I wouldn’t be able to withstand the unbearable awkwardness of sitting across the room from you.” Tinsley sat down in the chair, and he found himself quite enjoying the stunned look on the other man’s face. “If anything, I have more right to be here than you do.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion, pray tell.”

“You can afford to go to elsewhere,” said Tinsley dryly. “I don’t have half as many options.”

“Oh aren’t you witty,” said Ricky with narrowed eyes.

“It wasn’t a joke.”

Ricky tilted his chin up, in the same way a lord would to a peasant. “If you insist on staying out of spite, then fine. But I’m going to make it awfully difficult for you.”

“You’re a child.”

“What are you reading? Still that same book?” He put out a hand, spinning the book to face him. “Ah. A different one. Was the other too shameful for you?”

Tinsley went quiet, his gaze lowering to the book. “Not for me.” He slipped a finger under the plastic cover on the hardback, raising it slightly. Underneath, it was still the same book. “Just for others.”

Ricky watched him tuck the cover back into place. “...You’re taking a bit of a risk, aren’t you.”

“It’s a good book. I’ll read any book that’s good, regardless of the subject.”

Ricky pressed his lips in a line, looking down his nose at it. “And the subject is… homosexuality?”

“The subject is love,” came the quiet response. “It’s a love story. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Ricky met his gaze, holding it. “And you believe such a thing can exist?”

“A love story? Of course.”

“A love story between two men.”

“I believe love stories exist in all forms.”

Ricky searched his eyes, somewhat suspicious. “So you believe that two men can engage in a romance together?”

“I don’t think it’s my position to deny it.”

“You gave off a different impression yesterday, I have to say.”

Tinsley rubbed a hand across his mouth, letting it rest there. Then he lowered it so that he was lightly holding his jaw. “I thought I might’ve been in danger if you got a certain impression from me. I know your organization’s view on homosexuality. And I know a man was murdered only recently just on suspicion of being a gay man. I was… I was frightened.”

“Why would you be frightened?”

Tinsley stared at him. “You’re the Don now, aren’t you?”

Ricky didn’t react for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yes. I- I haven’t given much thought to it yet. But yes. I am.”

“And from what I understand, hits can’t occur within your organization without permission from the Don.” Tinsley looked at the man in front of him, the strange, soft deadliness in his youthful face and glittering eyes. “You’re Don Garafalo now, I guess.”

“No.” He allowed the confusion to linger on the other man’s face for a moment. “It’s just Don Ricardo. It’s Americans who use ‘Don’ like it’s the equivalent to ‘Mister’.”

“Oh?” Tinsley’s face took on a curious edge. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s an honorific. A title. A mark of respect.” He waved a vague hand. “I am Don Ricardo, or Don Ricardo Garafalo, but not Don Garafalo. That would show disrespect.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And in the papers here, they don’t even bother with the title.”

“They don’t recognize the respect.”

Ricky looked him over as he stubbed his cigarette out. “Do you?”

Tinsley looked back. “Do I what?”

“Recognize the respect?”

“...I don’t know.”

Ricky folded his arms on the table between them. “Why do you not know.”

“That man was murdered because he was suspected of being gay. But the murderers would’ve had to have been given permission.” Tinsley’s gaze didn’t flicker. “From the Don.”

Ricky inclined his head at the audacity of the suggestion. “I did _not_ give permission for it. Never.”

“Were you asked?”

“No. No, I wasn’t.”

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to do something, or are you just going to leave it as it is?”

Ricky picked up his drink, watching it with interest as the gold liquid swilled around inside. “Mm. I've been mulling it over, to be honest with you. In killing Antonio, the perpetrator did two things that are deserving of punishment in my eyes. Firstly, he killed an innocent man for no solid reason that I would accept. And secondly, he went against the old ways.”

“The old ways?”

“He acted without the Don’s permission. That is breaking the old ways.” He sat back, and an altogether unsettling look appeared in his eyes. “He will have to be punished accordingly."

Tinsley watched him over the rim of his glasses. "And what would be a suitable punishment, to you?"

"You seem quite interested in the workings of my profession, detective." Ricky smiled. "A bit of a sick curiosity."

"I do tend to be drawn to the macabre," said Tinsley, linking his hands on the table. "Theoretically."

"You're a man of theories, aren't you. You look like you've never taken a risk in your life."

Tinsley scoffed. "Oh, believe me, I did. And it didn't work out. It's the reason I'm in this bar right now, and not in the comfort of my own home."

"And that's it?" Ricky looked him over, at the easy set of his shoulders, at the loose way his fingers interlocked. It was very rare that a man showed such ease in the face of Ricky Goldsworth. "You take one risk and it doesn't work out, and you're done?"

"What's the worst mistake you've ever made?" asked Tinsley, somewhat forceful. "Ever. In your life. So far."

Ricky thought about it, gaze lowered, brows drawing together slowly. Tinsley laughed, a bitter sound.

"If you even have to think for so long, it's not half as bad as the mistakes I've made."

Ricky sat back, hanging an arm over the back of his chair, all charm and nonchalance. "Risks and mistakes aren't the same thing."

"They can be."

"Well good thing that I'm a gambler at heart." He grinned, sitting forward again. " _Grazie,_ detective.”

Tinsley watched in silence as Ricky downed the end of his drink in one before getting to his feet and leaving the cash on the table. Then Ricky was off and out the door, snatching his coat from the rack as he breezed past. A waiter came by to collect the empty glasses, and Tinsley ordered a whiskey, and then sat back and opened his book and spent the rest of the evening wondering what Ricky had hurried off to do. He supposed it didn't matter; he was bound to read about in the papers the next morning anyway.

* * *

Luca Calvi was ordered to Ricky's home. He arrived promptly, and allowed the Mayor to escort him inside. There was no use in running, he supposed. If it was your time to go, Ricky would find you. That was the way it worked. He hadn't been dubbed 'the Reaper' for no reason.

Ricky stood at the kitchen table, and to his right was the woman that was always with him, Francesca Norris. A black woman as a consigliere? Luca almost laughed right then and there, but the look on Ricky's face warned him otherwise. That, and the boning knife laid on the table. It was the only thing on the table. It was meant to be seen, in the same way a king would sit with his sword across his knees, to let the subject know they were not welcome.

"Luca. Thank you for arriving here so quickly."

"You called, Don Ricardo."

"I did." Ricky raised his chin, taking a deep breath through his nose. "I'm sure you know why."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"You do. His funeral is tomorrow at half ten."

Luca swallowed, but showed no regret. "Yes."

"Yes," repeated Ricky, a disdainful hiss. "You killed an innocent man."

"He wasn't-"

“You _murdered_ him-” Ricky paused to lower his voice back to normal. “-without my permission.”

“I don’t need your-”

“You do,” snarled Ricky, his eyes flashing. “You had no right. You went against the old ways. Because of that, you are to be punished.”

The man suddenly blanched. Perhaps the situation was more serious than he'd previously thought. His eyes flickered between the three people in front of him. “But- But Don Ricardo, listen to me, please. He- He- I was ordered to. At the time, I _was_ given permission. By your father. Don Lorenzo.”

Ricky went still, his glare weakening a tad. “What?”

“Your father ordered the hit, but it was to be carried out after his death. He ordered it.”

Ricky’s stomach churned. He kept his face stiff, frozen. When he spoke, his voice was icy with anger. “That is no excuse.”

“But- But-”

“Old orders are not to be carried out without my prior knowledge.” Ricky took a steadying breath, his heart skipping uncomfortably in his chest. “Never. Not-” He paused, a hand over his heart as his breaths turned shaky. “He- He can’t-”

“Ricky?” Fran took a subtle step closer. “Are you alright?”

Ricky turned away on his heel, quick and sharp, hands on his hips. He steadied himself, eyes squeezed shut, breathing slow and heavy. Then he turned back, moving right to the table. “Why did you kill him the way you did. You beat him to death. Why not shoot him, why not be clean about it.”

“Because he was _un finocchio_ , yes?”

“And that merits a more painful death in your eyes, does it?”

“Yes. It does.”

Ricky’s voice was steel. “He didn’t deserve it.”

“He was going against his family line, he was-”

“He didn’t deserve it,” repeated Ricky, sharp as a blade. “But you… I’m going to give you what you deserve.” He moved back around the table, picking up the boning knife, digging the tip into the wood of the table and resting his hand on the end of the handle. “Do you know what I had to listen to this morning, during my father’s funeral? A man and wife weep to me about their son. Their beloved son, taken from them too early. No one should have to bury their child. But you believed you had the right to take away what was dear to them. And _sangue chiama sangue_.”

The man stared at him in shock. “But I- I-”

“In return, I have no choice but to take away what must be so dear to you,” said Ricky in a dangerously soft voice. “Your family line.”

“What?”

“Now, there’s two ways this can be done. Chemically…” Ricky raised the knife, holding it with the point facing down. “...or physically. I would recommend the former. Less messy, but also less painful for you. And you are lucky I am being so merciful.”

“I- I don’t understand.”

Ricky searched his eyes, saw the fear making them wide enough that the whites showed all around, and smiled. “Yes you do.”

The man fell to his knees instantly, his hands clasped in the most desperate of prayers. “Please, Don Ricardo, please, don’t! I was just carrying out orders, I-”

“Justice cannot be swayed, _amico._ ” Ricky looked down his nose at him as he spoke. “You broke my trust, you disrespected me. I won’t stand for it. You have to be punished accordingly.”

"Please, _please,_ I didn't-"

"I'd advise that you recognize the mercy I am showing you at this time," said Ricky, cold and cutting. "I am giving you an option. If I were to do what I wanted, the operation would be done already." The knife flashed. "So make your choice. Now."

"I- I-"

"One more stutter and I'll decide for you."

The man's face was pale, deathly pale. He managed to utter: "Chemical."

"Excellent choice. Cleaner." Ricky turned his head halfway toward the Mayor, giving a slight nod. "Take him to the surgery. Explain the situation to the doctor."

"Right away."

Ricky didn't look away as Luca was led from the room in stunned silence. Fran followed. She closed the door behind her.

He went outside, into the night air, and lit a cigarette. Perhaps he had been too harsh. No, the harshness was necessary. He had to give some sort of sign, he had to let the rest of them know that he was not to be trifled with, regardless of any rumours. He had to let them know that any old orders from his father were punishable, to the extreme if necessary. He closed his eyes at the thought of his father, who had ordered a gay man be murdered just to let his son know one last time; _I despise you._ Ricky sat down at the kitchen table and dug notches into the wood with the knife. He didn't want to mope around his house. He wanted to go back to the bar and see if Tinsley was still there. Tinsley, that damned detective with his gentle smile and kind eyes. Ricky immediately decided against going back. He couldn't encourage the friendship, not so blatantly. So he called it an early night, and lay in bed awake for a few hours, until he was sure the bar would be closed and Tinsley would be gone home. Only then did he relax enough to fall asleep.


	9. Tryst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this entire chapter is basically just an entire unofficial date. enjoy

Ricky had given himself a day off in acknowledgement of a job well done. He had punished Luca Calvi in a manner that meant little to no public awareness of what had happened. It wasn't a murder, an assassination. It wasn't anything to be reported on, or talked about. Even Luca would be too hesitant to talk about what had happened, if he would talk about it at all. So Ricky left the business of the day to Fran, and had a relaxing morning. Or he tried. He had always been particularly talented at lounging, but this morning he felt restless. He knew what the feeling was, but he was ignoring it. Trying to. It's hard to ignore loneliness, especially when it's your only company. 

He stayed in his dressing gown, making an espresso and sitting outside in the sun with his sunglasses on. He swiftly grew bored. He never understood how people spent time on their own. Tinsley seemed to spend time alone like it was his most favourite thing to do. He'd sit in the park alone and he'd drink alone and he'd happily eat alone. Well, perhaps not alone. He always had a book with him. But a book wasn't enough for Ricky. At the end of the day, he couldn't talk to a book, and a book certainly couldn't talk back.

It wasn't that he didn't like the arts. He just wasn't the most interested in books. He preferred movies, or theatre, some poetry, or actual physical art. He had paintings around his house, a few very old, and a few more modern, frequently of scenic Italy. He also owned a few sculptures, only small ones, not the giants from the museums. That was another aspect of art he liked; museums. Whether historical or modern or art or science or nature, he enjoyed them. He stopped by one of the little sculptures, the one beside the phone. His nieces and nephew had dubbed it 'little Ricky'. He wasn't sure whether or not it truly looked like him. It had the curly hair alright, and the straight nose and the sharp jaw, but oftentimes he thought it looked quite sad, almost pouting. He pouted himself in empathy.

The doorbell rang, but he ignored it. It was probably just some post or something. Whatever it was, it could wait. He moved to the nearest painting. It was one his sister had gotten him for his birthday a few years ago, a copy of Caravaggio's _Narcissus._ Isabella had said that it had reminded her of him. She'd thought it was very funny, and so had the rest of his family. He rolled his eyes at the memory, fond and far away now.

"Hello?"

Ricky yelped, grabbing at the front of his dressing gown like a damsel would at her robe. His sunglasses slid back down onto his eyes, and he swept them off with a flourish. " _P_ _er amor del cielo,_ what in the world are you doing?!"

Tinsley hovered in the doorway, his face almost as red as the scarf around his neck. "Sorry, I- Your door was open, and I'm-"

"That doesn't mean you can just walk into my home!"

"I'm sorry! It's just- It's work. It's for work. They sent me." Or maybe he volunteered.

"Work?!" Ricky was still holding his robe across his chest, indignant, his eyes wide and brows furrowed. "For the love of God, I- Fine. Fine, what is it."

Tinsley had his gaze averted, clearly embarrassed, as if Ricky was entirely naked before him. "I can wait until you- If you want to-"

"Yes. Yes, I want to. Wait there."

Tinsley waited until the footsteps had gone quiet before letting out his breath. He ran a weary hand down his face, letting it rest over his mouth. What a disaster. He'd really put his foot in it there. But Ricky was usually up and about at this time, and _dressed,_ not in a silky dressing gown, studying paintings like a critic in a gallery. Tinsley observed the paintings himself for a moment before a small statue beside the telephone caught his eye. He stayed a distance, at first, his head tilted aside just a tad. It was quite a pretty little thing, delicate. Probably a small copy of some bigger work. He wondered if it was still marble, or some cheaper stone. He moved over to feel; yes, it was marble. Smooth and hard. He let his fingers trace up along the bend of its arm to its shoulder, and then drift to the sharp jaw, feeling how the marble somehow still kept it so smooth to touch. He let his fingertip brush across its eyes, and down its straight nose, before resting on its lips. It was so carefully carved that he could feel where they parted. Then he tucked his finger under its chin, like he could tilt its head back to look at him. But it didn't move, and he remained watching it from under his lashes, melancholic.

"What are you doing?"

It was Tinsley's turn to jump and yelp, spinning to face the owner of the voice. "Sorry. Sorry, I guess I was just-"

"You like that one?" asked Ricky, tucking his white shirt into his trousers as he crossed the room to him. "I liked it."

"It, uh, yeah. It kind of looks like you. A little."

Ricky stared at him for a moment, then back at the statue. "Really?"

"Yeah. Yeah, the..." Tinsley's hand reached out again, just to give the marble face a light brush along the jaw. "The whole, you know..." He cleared his throat, folding his arms. "Face."

Ricky picked the statue up, giving it a once-over, before turning it so that both he and the statue were facing Tinsley. Then he smiled wide. "Well? Identical?"

Tinsley laughed. "Not like that. Do the face he's doing."

Ricky pouted, a perfect puppy-dog face, batting his lashes. "Now?"

Tinsley's smile faltered, his eyes fluttering a tad as they trailed over the other man's face. His voice was quiet. "Yes."

"Well I have one that looks like you, too." Ricky grinned at him, putting the statue down before moving away. "Come here."

Tinsley followed him, rolling his eyes when Ricky turned with an eagle statue in hand. "Oh, very funny."

"No, no, turn your head." Ricky placed a finger under the taller man's chin, turning his head as desired, before holding the eagle statue under it. "Two beaks."

"It's not a beak!" said Tinsley, attempting to frown at his own nose, going cross-eyed for a second in the process.

"Oh, yes it is."

"Well we can't all look like movie stars," said Tinsley dryly, giving the statue a playful push aside. "The world needs variety."

"I couldn't agree more." Ricky placed the statue back down where it belonged, giving its beak a quick burnish with the end of his sleeve. "Now, you said you were here for business, but I can't do business on an empty stomach."

"Well I certainly do need you to be able to do business."

"Then I suppose we best find somewhere to eat," said Ricky with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"I'm going to get in awful trouble one of these days." Tinsley followed him out into the hallway, waiting for him to get his coat. "I really don't think going for a meal counts as work."

"Just call it a business lunch," said Ricky, buttoning his coat. "Say that I simply would _not_ listen to you until I had eaten at one of my favourite diners-" He checked his watch. "-which should be relatively quiet, seeing as the schools aren't on their lunch breaks quite yet."

"Well then at least let me drive," said Tinsley, readjusting his bag on his shoulder. "It would look a bit better for me."

"If you insist."

"Now it's not half as fancy as your set of wheels," said Tinsley, getting his keys from his pocket as they went down the path toward the driveway. "But it gets me places."

"I'm not _snobby,_ you know."

Tinsley pondered this. "Yes, I suppose you're not. I wish you were. It would be easier to dislike you."

"And you want to dislike me?" grinned Ricky, stopping at the passenger door and waiting for Tinsley to unlock the car.

"I feel like I should," said Tinsley wryly, unlocking the car. "But you do make it difficult for me."

"Maybe La Cosa Nostra simply isn't as it's portrayed in the media," said Ricky as they sat into the car. "We're not all gun-toting madmen."

"Yes, and I'm very glad."

Ricky started up the radio once the car had left the drive, scanning through the channels until he found a song he liked. "Ah, Sinatra. Tell me, do you like the Rat Pack?"

"You mean Sinatra and Dean Martin and those guys? Sure."

"Born to Italian immigrants," said Ricky matter-of-factly. "And Sammy Davis Jr? African-American and Cuban. Everyone's spat on until they become entertaining enough to the average American. My family is the same. We have to remain pleasing to the crowd, or else the tide will turn quicker than imaginable."

"Well you do it very well. Makes my job quite hard, you know."

"Oh, my deepest sympathies." Ricky looked back at the road. "Take the next left. It's only a few blocks over. It- Oh, look!"

Tinsley almost slammed the breaks at the man's excited exclamation. "What? What is it?"

"Oh, it-" He waved his hands, searching for the word. " _Scoiattolo_ , you know, it's red, with a bushy tail and it collects acorns!"

"A squirrel?"

" _Squirrel_ ," said Ricky. "I can never remember that word. It's one that I just can't keep in my head."

Tinsley smiled. "You like them?"

"Very much. They're probably my favourite animal." He looked at Tinsley. "What's yours?"

Tinsley thought about it as he drove the car carefully over the fallen leaves. "I like deer."

"Deer? Why?"

"I don't quite know. They just look very kind. Very gentle. And graceful." He paused to follow a quick direction Ricky gave him, turning the wheel. "And I like their eyes. Why do you like squirrels?"

"I like how they pick things up with their little hands." He shrugged. "That's it, really."

"That's fair enough."

Ricky looked ahead. "Park here. It's just a few shops down."

Tinsley did so, cutting the engine. He got out of his car and stepped into the chill of the autumn air, which was starting to set in degree by degree. The clouds were quite low above, low enough for one to believe that they may be able to reach out and pluck one loose from the rest. Tinsley turned at the sound of rustling, and Ricky emerged from behind the car, holding a reddening leaf in hand.

"Aren't the colours just wonderful?" Ricky twirled it by its stem, and it blurred in red and yellow and orange, not quite unlike a sudden burst of flame. "I bring my nieces and nephew to the park during fall, and whoever brings me the prettiest leaf gets a dollar."

Tinsley smiled at this. "That's very sweet."

"Only to the one who wins the dollar," grinned Ricky. "But I bring them to get cocoa after, so any tears don't last too long."

"You sound like a very fun uncle," said Tinsley, joining him on the path.

"Well they don't have a father," said Ricky simply, bringing the leaf along toward the diner. "So I do what I can."

"Even if they did have a father, I doubt he would be any better than you."

Ricky smiled, again showing that surprising bashfulness. "Thank you."

Tinsley held the door open for him before following into the warmth, where the fogged windows closed off the world outside. It was quiet for now, with an old couple sharing a slice of cake at a booth at the far end, and a grandmother and two children having milkshakes at the booth next to them. A waitress in an apron came over with a smile.

"Afternoon, Mr Garafalo. Sit anywhere you like and I'll drop menus down right away."

"Does every restaurant in town know you by name?" asked Tinsley as he followed Ricky to the emptier end of the booths. He took off his coat and scarf before sitting down, placing them on the seat beside him. "Or is it just because of the papers?"

"Probably a mix." Ricky placed the leaf on the table, flipping it back to front and front to back by its stem. "I don't read the papers often myself."

"If I was in the papers once a week like you are, I'd _have_ to look."

"Why?"

"To see the state I'm in." Tinsley rested his chin in his hand, the waitress dropping two menus to the table. "I suppose you don't have to worry about that. I can confirm that you're unfairly photogenic."

"Oh, please."

Tinsley mimicked brushing hair back off his shoulder, akin to a supermodel, speaking in a breathy voice. "Who, me? Why, I'm just crossing the street to buy some groceries." He plucked at his shirt collar. "Oh, this old thing? I-"

"Shut up," said Ricky with a wry roll of his eyes. "I don't act like that."

Tinsley shrugged, sitting back with a smile. "If you say so."

"I don't!" Ricky laughed, good-natured. "I don't swan around like Monroe."

Tinsley shrugged again. "I wouldn't know what she swans around like. I haven't seen any of her movies."

"What?" Ricky was incredulous. The waitress arrived with two white mugs and a pot of coffee, and filled both up. "You haven't seen any of them?"

"No. I don't really go to the movies."

"Why not?"

Tinsley tilted his head aside, very curious altogether as to the thoughts in his own head. "I suppose... I just prefer books. Movies aren't the same."

"How not? They're much more immersive." Ricky added milk and sugar to his coffee as he spoke. "You get to see everything, hear everything, just like it was written."

"I'm not interested in _seeing_ characters do things," shrugged Tinsley. "Books let you _be_ the characters, and know what they're thinking, ten times better than any silver screen could."

Ricky raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think that could be dangerous? You might end up living the rest of your life between the pages of a book, all while never leaving this town."

"I still have a long stretch of life to live," said Tinsley. "For now, I'm happy staying safe. But maybe someday I'll change my mind. Maybe some day I'll have lived enough to be satisfied with just watching a movie."

Ricky smiled at this. "Well what types of movies do you like?"

"What kind do _you_ like?"

"Oh, any type of action. Cowboys and the like. Thrillers, maybe. Horror, occasionally. Especially as Halloween is approaching." Ricky smiled again; he was smiling a lot, and each one was as bright as the one before. "I adore scary movies in the fall. Any type of movie that gets my blood pumping."

Tinsley gave him a fond look. "Why am I not surprised."

"But you didn't answer my question, which is what movies do _you_ like?"

"Oh, I don't like many. Perhaps historical movies. Fantasy and science fiction, when done right. And not to be too self-obsessed, but I love detective movies, although I prefer novels."

Ricky was quiet for a moment, as if waiting for him to continue. "And what about romance?"

Tinsley felt himself go pink just at the sound of the word coming from the other man's mouth. "Oh, um, occasionally. From time to time."

"You're reading a romance right now, aren't you?" Ricky rested his chin in his hand. "Tell me about it."

Tinsley went still. "Tell you about it?"

"Yes. I'm curious. I'm a bit like you when it comes to stories. If it's good, it's good."

Tinsley looked at his bag, where the book was currently residing. "I... I don't know where to start."

"Can I see it?"

Tinsley nodded, taking the book out and handing it over, a bit hesitant. Ricky took it without care, turning it over.

"Who are the characters?" he asked. "The main ones."

"...Phillip and Tim."

Ricky raised an eyebrow at the short answer. "And what are they like? What's their stories? Don't be shy. I won't judge."

Tinsley swallowed, one hand fidgeting with the other. "Well, um, they're both in the navy. Or they were. It's set nowadays. After the war."

"Ah, the navy. Yes, I've heard that homosexuality was pretty common on the boats."

Tinsley wasn't too sure whether or not this was some sort of trap; Ricky was speaking about the subject with such nonchalance, as if none of it shocked him even in the slightest. So he just said: "Yes."

"Well what's the Phillip character like?" persisted Ricky, still looking at the book.

"He's... a bit arrogant. He's smart. Confident. Charming, when he wants to be. Cruel when he wants to be." Tinsley looked at Ricky's face, at the slight thoughtfulness on it, the lowered gaze with long black lashes. "And he's described as young and handsome, and popular among the ladies."

Ricky's eyes suddenly raised to meet Tinsley's for a split second before the latter averted his gaze. "And what's the other guy like? Tim."

Tinsley cleared his throat, attempting to act casual, though his heart was skipping in his chest. "He's... quieter. Kind of aloof. A bit of a mystery at the start. And he's married. Unhappily."

"Quiet, aloof, and mysterious," said Ricky in an odd tone; half amused, half intrigued. "And how does this quiet, aloof, and mysterious man end up falling for the arrogant, smart and confident one? Seems an odd mix."

Tinsley looked at him for a little moment and quietly said: "I don't know. They're just drawn to each other."

Ricky looked back, looked right into his eyes, and all of a sudden he straightened back up, the dip of his throat hollowing as he took a sharp breath, almost indignant. Tinsley dropped his gaze, bringing his coffee to his mouth, and the silence lingered for an uncomfortable amount of time. He was downright terrified to look at Ricky again. He couldn't tell whether he was mad or not, or insulted, or disgusted. The bell at the diner door trilled and a group of teenagers spilled in, laughing and giggling and carefree in their brightly-coloured dresses. Two went straight to the jukebox, and argued over what song to pick. Tinsley was grateful for the noise they brought with them, especially considering Ricky had yet to say a single word. The man looked almost shell-shocked, his hands resting on the table. Tinsley hurried to finish his coffee, but before he could gather together an excuse to leave, the waitress came back over.

"What can I get for you boys? Before I move onto the kids. They always take an hour to decide what shakes they want."

Ricky stared at her. "Bacon. Eggs. Scrambled."

"Bacon and scrambled eggs," she nodded, not bothering to write it down. "Fries?"

Ricky nodded.

"Alright. And what about you?"

Tinsley tapped his mug. "I'm good with coffee. Already had breakfast."

"Want a refill?"

"Sure."

She went off and came back with the pot and topped it up for him. Ricky nudged his cup forward for a refill too. Then the waitress advanced down to the teenagers. Tinsley looked at Ricky.

"I didn't know you were a bacon and eggs guy."

"Well I can't eat pasta three meals a day," said Ricky dryly. "It's not socially acceptable. Just like dog-earing your books isn't acceptable."

Tinsley reddened. "Well I always lose bookmarks. So I just fold the page."

"I hate that. It drives me up the wall."

"I don't have a bookmark!"

Ricky looked around, his eyes landing on the leaf he'd brought in. He picked it up, holding it out. "Improvise."

Tinsley stared at the bright colours of the proffered leaf. He reached out and took it, opening his book to the right page and smoothing the folded corner out with his thumb. Then he tucked the leaf in so that its tips were visible over the top when the book was closed. It made a pleasant crisping sound when the pages pressed in on it.

"See?" Ricky spread his hands, elbows resting on the table. " _È perfetto."_

Tinsley nodded, tucking the book away again. "Thank you."

"You better be careful with it. It cost me a pretty penny."

The waitress arrived with the food, placing it in front of Ricky with a wink and a smile. He smiled back. Tinsley watched the interaction with a sudden uncomfortable feeling in his chest. He sipped at his coffee as Ricky started eating; he ate delicately, not letting the egg touch the fries or the fries the bacon or the bacon the egg. He nudged them away from each other with his fork when necessary. Tinsley found it incredibly endearing, and the feeling in his chest turned from uncomfortable to warm and soft.

"You don't like your food to touch?"

Ricky glanced up like a child being caught doing something they shouldn't, and spoke around a mouthful of egg. "I don't like when my fries go soggy."

Tinsley smiled. "Very well. That's understandable."

When he was done, Ricky called over the waitress for one more refill in his cup, and Tinsley the same. Then Ricky wiped at his mouth with a napkin, sat back with his legs crossed and said: "You have business to discuss?"

Tinsley had almost entirely forgotten. He looked at Ricky, at how he had so smoothly transitioned from a bubbly young man to something dangerous. His shoulders relaxed, his lids went smooth and heavy, his crossed legs were a place for one of his wrists to drape over. He suddenly wasn't unlike a feline of sorts, with an edge - smoky, sly, surprisingly sultry. Tinsley cleared his throat, casually lowering his gaze before speaking.

"Yes, it's about the murder of Antonio Bosetti. A few guys are looking into it at the station, and they're trying to find the perpetrator. And I have a hunch you know who it is."

Ricky gave a slow shrug, a slow blink accompanying it. "I can't say I do."

"Don't play games with me here. I prefer it when you're honest."

Ricky raised an eyebrow at this. "You want the honest truth, do you?"

"Yes. I do."

"The truth is that I know who did it, and I punished him for what he did, and I'd much rather it all stay within my control."

Tinsley watched his face for a moment, his own face inscrutable. "Okay. I believe you."

"That doesn't really change anything, but I suppose it's a nice bonus." Ricky took a toothpick from the small box beside them, bringing it to his teeth, and he even managed to make that something worth staring at. "I suppose this is the end of our little rendezvous then, is it?"

 _It doesn't have to be._ "You need a lift home, don't you?"

A strange expression flickered across Ricky's face, just for a split second, just a glimpse of a sort of sadness Tinsley was very familiar with. Loneliness. He straightened up in his seat at the sight of it. Then Ricky said: "Yes, I suppose I do."

And as if there actually was something watching over them, the heavens opened, and rain poured down so suddenly it caused the few people in the diner to look out the window in shock. It was falling so hard and so fast it was almost violent. They decided to wait it out. So they waited. And waited. Five minutes passed, then fifteen, then twenty. Ricky was flicking through Tinsley's book, and Tinsley was at the jukebox, crouched down to read the songs available, with the teenagers there to give their opinion on the songs he suggested. Ricky scanned the pages as he flipped through them; there were a few scribbles here and there, but of course he was the type to annotate his books. Ricky found an underlined paragraph, but there was no reasoning for why it was chosen beside it. Ricky read the words.

> _"There's one more thing," he said._
> 
> _"I know," the older man answered. "The knottiest problem of all. You want to talk of you and me and what is between us."_
> 
> _"Yes." Phillip's breath grew short as he waited._
> 
> _"You're safe, Phillip. Despite the questionable appearance of my actions of the past days, there is no cause for alarm. We've both too much to lose to risk - tilting with windmills."_

Ricky's lips parted, his brows coming together in a small frown. He read the small extract again, just to make sure it was the source of the strange feeling in his chest. He glanced up at the beginnings of the song chosen; _Everybody Loves Somebody._ He was familiar with it; Lucy loved Dean Martin, and had each one of his records. His heart was skipping in his chest as he watched Tinsley joking with the teenagers, many of which were clearly smitten with him. Ricky closed over the book the second Tinsley looked at him, pushing it away as if he was done with it. He didn't know what to do with his hands as Tinsley sat back down with a smile.

"Did you read any?"

Ricky shook his head, rubbing at his nose. "Oh, a word or two." He suddenly checked his watch, as if he had anywhere to be. "I best be going. I- I have plans."

"Oh." Tinsley glanced outside, and as if to prove that there _wasn't_ actually something watching over them, it had stopped raining. "Okay."

Ricky got to his feet, taking the cash from his pocket and handing it to the waitress. "Keep the change, it's fine."

It was damp out, the pavements glistening. Along the street, black iron lampposts stood tall and cast halos of light in the day that had suddenly turned to late evening due to the weight of the clouds above. The restaurants and shops were open, and their lights were on and their signs were lit up in gold. 

"It's very pretty this time of year," said Tinsley, just to poke at some conversation.

Ricky took a while to answer. "Not the prettiest out there."

"Oh? You've seen better?"

Ricky nodded, hands in his coat pockets. "Italy. I've only ever been home once, you know. To Italy. Napoli."

Tinsley wandered to a halt beside the car, and although he wanted to encourage the conversation, he didn't want to frighten the other man away either. Ricky had been emotional before, angry, sad, happy, but never like this. Never so vulnerable. So Tinsley just watched the street, as if he wasn't desperate to hear what the other man had to say. It was something soft, secret, sweet, and Tinsley wanted it very badly. So he waited.

"I was only six," said Ricky into the quiet. "And my mom sent me and my sister across to Italy, to spend the summer with her parents. They hadn't come over here, you see. They stayed in Napoli. It's quite far south. Quite poor. But I didn't know. I was so young. To me, it was the richest place in the world. People would be sitting outside at all hours, maybe working, maybe just seeing their friends. And there was always lines and lines of washing above the streets, hanging from one building to the next. The streets are narrow there, much narrower than here, and all cobbled. And sometimes traveling musicians would come through, and they'd play us a song, any song we wanted, just for five _centisimi_. There were kiosks, and markets, and trams. In my mind, it was all magic. It still is." Ricky lapsed into silence, his fingers interlocked, thumb rubbing against the other. "One day I want to go home. Where my family came from. I can feel it... calling me, I suppose. I think about it in the most unusual times. I think I'd be happier there."

Tinsley continued studying the side of his face that he could see. "Are you unhappy here?"

"I don't know," said Ricky. "And sometimes I think that's as much of a 'no' as anything else."

"Well if you are unhappy, you're good at hiding it."

Ricky turned his head to look at him. "You're not."

"What do you mean?"

"You're unhappy here. I can tell." Ricky looked his face over, curious. "You're not very good at hiding it."

"...I suppose the longer you're hiding something, the harder it is to keep hiding it."

Ricky bit on his lip, eyes worried. "Why are you unhappy?"

After a moment of silence Tinsley smiled a sad smile, his lips pressed together. "Because I don't have any reason to be otherwise, I'm afraid."

"Why don't you leave whatever is making you unhappy?" asked Ricky, trying not to appear too eager about the subject.

Tinsley shrugged his shoulders. "I have nowhere to go. I don't have family. I don't have many friends. Not anymore."

"Where did your friends go?"

"I pushed them away. I allowed myself to be forced to do so. I prioritized what I thought was love over my good friends, and I was encouraged the whole way." He let out a heavy sigh. "A friend is just as important to have as a lover."

"Your lover should be your friend."

Tinsley looked at him, brows raised in interest. "In what manner?"

Ricky took a while to answer, his hands rubbing against each other. ".. Well, you should be able to talk with your lover as if talking with a friend, I think. You shouldn't be afraid to- to discuss certain topics, or debate, or do anything like that. You should be friends with the person you share your bed with."

Tinsley gave him a long look before speaking. "I wish I'd had you around when I was younger, you know. I was easily influenced by all the wrong people."

"And I'm not one of the wrong people?"

"No. No, you're not."

Ricky smiled at this, his cheeks going pink. "Not many people would say that about someone in... my position."

"That's because all they see is the position you're in," came the reply. "They don't see you."

Ricky's smile dropped a tad, his eyes going big, almost helpless. "I- I'm going to go to the bookshop for a while. I have to, um, get some books for the kids."

"That's fine." Tinsley moved around the bonnet to the driver's side. "And thanks for the food. Again. One day I'll have to repay you."

Ricky managed the beginnings of a smile, but he swiftly realized he was feeling almost faint with the sudden feeling overwhelming him. He rubbed at his chest, where he could feel it the strongest. Tinsley waved out the window before pulling away, and Ricky watched the car drive off down the road. He stood for a few minutes after, staring at the empty end of the street. Then he simply said to himself and the feeling in his chest: "Oh no."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> those teens that come into the diner definitely play the absolute bop that is Stupid Cupid by Connie Francis
> 
> https://youtu.be/2kJA8v577W8
> 
> catch me goin apeshit in my room


	10. That's Amore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might seem a bit slapdash so I will be editing within the next 24 hours !! but Who Cares
> 
> tiny bit of nsfw but it's not wit who u hope :(
> 
> also me, writing a fic: i... i have to include a party. i have to. somewhere. this needs more party.

Lucy flicked his light on, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. "Ricardo. Up. Now."

He bundled himself further under the covers, bringing them up over his head. "No."

"Oh, come along. What is the matter with you?" She advanced into the room, pausing in front of the mirror to fix her hair. "Are you ill?"

He sat upright, holding the bed covers to his chest. His dark hair was tousled wildly from his restless sleep, and a forbidden five o'clock shadow was along his jaw. "Perhaps. Of sorts."

"Of sorts?" She gave him a questioning look. "Do elaborate."

He chewed on his lip, looking aside. "I don't quite know how to."

"Well there is, without a doubt, something the matter with you." She sat on the side of his bed, resting a hand on the duvet. "You come around last night for no particular reason, and you drink my wine, and you read a book essentially _all_ night - I saw your light on at about three this morning, Ricky - and now you're refusing to get out of bed because of an illness 'of sorts'." She placed the back of her hand against his forehead. "You don't have a temperature. Is there pain anywhere?"

He swallowed, his eyes still round and childlike. "What does it... What does it feel like to be in love?"

Lucy stared at him for a moment in silence, her face unreadable. "Well, with your father..." Then she suddenly laughed, a hand on her chest. "Oh, _cucciolo_ , I wouldn't know." She got to her feet, still laughing at her own humour. "Why are you asking such a thing?"

"Curiosity." He glanced at the book on his bedside locker. He had gone to the bookshop after meeting Tinsley, but it hadn't been for the kids. He had wanted to read _Quatrefoil._ He needed to read it, ever since he had read that single extract. So he tucked it into his coat and left three times the cash at the desk in exchange for no questions asked and walked straight out the door and home. "It doesn't make you feel ill, does it?"

"Well they do say that there is such a thing as being 'lovesick', but who knows? Perhaps you should listen to some of my records." She sang loudly, out of tune, but uncaring, swanning across the room toward the door. "When you walk in a dream but you know you're not dreaming, signore! Scusami, but you see, back in old Napoli that's amore!"

"Shush, mamma!"

She beamed at him from the doorway. "Get up and get dressed, Ricardo. The first guests are due in an hour."

"Oh why do we even need a fundraiser? It's not as if we don't have the money."

"For publicity, Ricardo. Now stop moping and snap to it."

She closed the door and he flopped back onto the bed, rolling onto his front and folding his pillow over his head. He let out a frustrated groan. He didn't like what he was feeling, only because it was unfamiliar territory to him. It demanded to be listened to every minute of every hour, and Ricky was not one to obey demands. He was, essentially, battling with himself. He pulled on his dressing gown with a bit of vehemence, scowling at nothing in particular. A maid appeared with a tray with coffee, courtesy of Lucy, and he gratefully accepted. He drank it on the balcony, smoking a cigarette. The evening was settling in, bringing with it a light, soft mist. It lingered over the grass of the gardens, gentle. He went back inside and to the en suite and shaved and washed his face and fixed his hair, aiming to keep the volume that comes with a tossing-and-turning sleep, but make it look less... Einstein-inspired. He picked out the pieces of a black suit - he always kept a spare few at his mother's - and got into it, brushing away any stray hairs or bits of dust on the trousers or blazer. It was an Italian cut, with a tapered waist and the hips snug to the body, and the shoulders unpadded. He much preferred the streamlined style to the more stocky American and British styles. He left the blazer open and went without a tie, which he got away with due to his abundance of panache. Then he studied himself in the mirror, and for once, he wondered if he looked good.

He was never too concerned about this before, as a tiger didn't have to concern itself with the brilliance of its stripes. But now he felt more akin to a bird of paradise; was he displaying himself in the best way? Was it enough to gain the approval of a certain someone? He closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. What was he even doing. Tinsley didn't care for fashion, or beauty, or any of it. He just cared for his books and a cup of coffee. Or did he? The way he had traced the outline of the statue in Ricky's house had been strangely intimate, soft, as if the statue had any chance of feeling the touch at all. And then he'd said: _It looks like you._ Ricky rubbed a hand over his mouth, letting his thumb and forefinger trace down either side of his jaw to meet at his chin. He had to get rid of the statue. He had a sudden burning intolerance for it, a jealousy for it.

"Ricky?" Izzy stuck her head in the door, all dolled up in her finery. "I'm about to drop the kids around to Nonno's old house. Nonnina is staying there tonight; she has a migraine so she offered to mind them for me."

"That's fine. I'll see you when you get back." He fixed his shirt cuffs as he joined her at the door. "Don't be late, though. I don't think I'll be able to last five minutes if you're not here."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"I don't know. I think I'm ill." He rubbed a hand down his face before giving himself a sharp slap on both cheeks. "God, I don't feel myself in the slightest."

"Yes, ma was telling me." She gave him a worried look, eyes running over his face. "She said you stayed here last night, and drank quite a bit in your old room."

"I didn't drink a _lot._ I just drank a few glasses."

"But are you alright?" She put the back of her hand against his forehead; her rings were cool against his skin. "You don't feel too hot."

"No, no, I'm..." He glanced at the book on his bedside locker before ushering her out the door. "It's nothing. I'm probably just a bit hungover."

They turned the corner down the stairs as the front door opened, and in stepped the tall figure of the Mayor, who tipped his hat with a calm: "Good evening."

"Good evening, Mayor." Lucy took a quick break from ordering the staff to-and-fro to cross over to him and kiss him on both cheeks. "Take off your coat, close the door."

"Thank you, _signora."_

He gave his coat to a passing hired waiter, a certain recognizable waiter, with a smattering of freckles and dark eyes that flickered to Ricky on the stairs. Ricky paused, trying to remember where he'd seen him before. It was a week or so ago, when he and his sister and mother went for lunch. He remembered the quick glances, the blatant interest on the waiter's part, and there was interest on his own part too. But not so much anymore. Not now. He watched the waiter move off toward the coat room, feeling just a bit strange. A week ago and he would have followed, charmed, worked his magic. It had always been so - a flirtatious word, a gauging of reactions, and a stolen night that would end the next morning with a threat. _Don't speak about this, if you value your life._ It used to be enough, but not now. Spontaneous nights of impersonal passion weren't as appetizing as they once were, not now that he knew what it was truly like to just be with someone, talk with someone so easily, so smoothly, and have them understand almost every side of him. Well, the sides he had shown so far. Oh, what was he thinking? Tinsley was a married man, with a home, a job, a stable life. Maybe even thinking about children. Ricky bit on his thumbnail for a moment, out of place in the conversation occurring with his mom, sister, and the Mayor. He slipped off toward the coat room.

The waiter was still hanging up the Mayor's coat, taking a peculiarly long time to do so. Stalling. Waiting to be followed. He turned when Ricky came in, and didn't seem too surprised. " _Buonasera, signore."_

Ricky closed the door behind him, wondering why the hesitance was still in his chest. _Grab it. Grab the chance._ He decided to play it smooth. "I recognize you from somewhere, don't I?"

An eager nod. "Yes. I served you and your mother and sister at the café."

"Ah. Yes." Ricky fixed his collar, cleared his throat, searching for the usual mastery he tended to exude over these situations. "What's your name?"

"Marco, _signore."_

"Well thank you, Marco. For working for us tonight." Ricky took hold of his hand in a firm shake, his other hand moving to rest on the waiter's forearm. He kept his eyes fixed on his. "I'll have to find some way to repay you later."

Marco smiled, upping the suggestiveness of the interaction. "I'll be staying late. To help clean up."

"I'll find you when I need you."

Ricky left abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he made a beeline for the kitchen, and the drinks.

* * *

If Tinsley had thought Ricky’s house was big, then his mother’s was a monstrosity. It looked like it came right out of Hollywood; a long drive, two sets of stone steps leading up to the front door, and a garage attached that was the same size as the average house. Through the front door was a vast hall with two sets of stairs that curved around to meet each other at the second floor, and there were plush sofas and armchairs and glass-topped tables and on those tables vases and vases of flowers. From here, they had been able to hear the party. It was toward the back of the house, through the dozens of halls.

“How rich is this family?” asked Darla, eyes large. “This place is a castle.”

“Well, the occupants do consider themselves royalty,” said Holly, striding on ahead. “Come along.”

Tinsley had followed the two women, smoothing down his black tie. He followed them down a hall and then down another and through a parlour and the entire time the voices and the music were growing louder, until they were suddenly upon the commotion. It was bustling, with ladies and gents in cocktail dresses and sharp suits, and much laughter, food, and drinks. The chat mixed with the smoke in the air, and Tinsley picked out both English and Italian, equally enthusiastic. He noticed very little else, as does anyone who is intent on finding a single goal. His gaze swept past faces, looking for just the one, his heart fluttering in his chest at the idea of seeing him again. He smoothed down his tie, taking off toward the doors to the back garden, leaving Holly and Darla standing in the dust for a few hours yet.

"Bit of a bloodhound tonight, isn't he?" said Darla after the first hour. "Wonder what he's sniffing out with that schnoz."

She went scouting for drinks at the lack of a reply. Holly was distracted, her eyes narrowing at a figure across the milling people.

Lucy was still wearing black, as was the style of mourning, standing out against the candy-coloured dresses like a raven among birds of paradise. What wasn’t so much the style of mourning was the low-cut back, the sweetheart neckline, and the fitting as if it were painted on. The fur shawl rested around her back, held in place with her elbows, insouciant. Not breaking the rules, but just about getting a crack in them. As per usual. Holly rolled her eyes. 

“How do you move in that thing?” Holly glanced at the cinched waist as Lucy came over, a brow raised. “It has to be killing you.”

“Oh, it's quite alright,” came the breezy reply.

“I’d suggest that it might be crushing your organs, but if you don’t have a heart, maybe you don’t have the rest either.”

Lucy looked her over with the beginnings of an amused smile. “Venomous words, Horsley. You’re lucky that you’re an asset and not a liability anymore.”

“Yes, lucky me.” Holly scanned the crowd with her shrewd eyes. “Where’s the Oddmother? Is she not around tonight?”

“In bed with a migraine,” said Lucy, flipping open her French enamel case of cigarettes. “I’m afraid you won’t get to meet her on this night.”

Holly tutted. “Which means I essentially came for no reason.”

“Oh, what would you have been doing instead?” came the dry response. “Sitting at home with your ten cats?”

Holly scowled. “I have two.”

“It’s but a matter of time.”

Darla returned with two drinks, hesitating for a second at the sight of the newcomer. “Good evening, Mrs Goldsworth. I didn’t see you. I would have brought you a drink.”

Lucy raised her brows. “Would you have? Now, see, Holly. Why can’t you be like that.”

“Because I have a head on my shoulders.” Holly tutted, throwing Darla a sidelong look as she took the drink off her. “You can’t be offering drinks to criminals.”

“I’m not a detective,” shrugged Darla, accepting a cigarette from the criminal in question. “I just do the typing and take the calls. As you so often remind me.”

Lucy threw her head back and laughed, delighted. “Oh, I love this one. Say, are you looking for a new job?”

“No,” said Holly firmly. “She doesn’t have Italian heritage.”

“That isn’t _entirely_ necessary,” shrugged Lucy. “I like my assistants to think sharp and to dress sharp. That’s of utmost importance, and I believe this lady here has both.”

Darla looked down at her dress, almost shy. “Oh, not really. This is just my old prom dress. I don’t have much else.”

Lucy raised her hand over Darla’s head, turning her index finger in a quick circle. “Turn for me.” Darla turned. “My, you’re stunning. Tell me, have you ever heard of Jacques Fath? He does some truly beautiful gowns, and-”

Holly split away from the conversation, as she had no interest in fashion or seeing her secretary be taken away from her. She found her way to Tinsley, seeing as he was the most obvious over the rest of the crowd. He was entertaining a small group, and she could tell by the way the people were angled toward him that they were enjoying it. By the way the ladies present were smiling oh so sweetly and batting their lashes, Holly guessed that they were _especially_ enjoying it. But Tinsley was distracted. She could see it in the way his eyes would flicker above everyone’s heads from time to time, almost hopeful, expectant. She followed his gaze as she got closer to the small group, but someone else spoke up before she could.

“That’s Ricky,” said one of the women, seeing what Tinsley was glancing at. “He’s the new Don, because his dad died last week. He’s alright though.”

“And easy on the eyes,” came another comment, and a round of tittering laughter.

“And unmarried,” added another. “Not even a mistress.”

“Not even a mistress? No girlfriend?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“So he’s up for grabs tonight, ladies,” grinned one of the girls, ignoring the good-hearted tap on the arm from her boyfriend. “I’d say he’s an _amazing_ lover. All Italians are passionate, isn’t that what they say?”

Tinsley’s cheeks were going pink, and he was suddenly seeming quite flustered. He looked at Holly as she arrived by his side, and the relief was palpable. “Hi.”

“Hello.” She offered him a cigarette, which he took. “Having a good time?”

“Yes, actually.” He smiled. “You know, when I started this job, I thought there’d be a lot more blood and guts.”

“Oh, the Goldsworths are very careful to maintain a pristine public image,” she said, her flat tone making it clear what she thought of this. She was watching Darla gushing to Lucy across the room like a teenager to their favourite celebrity. “They wage war differently than their counterparts in other towns. It’s all charm and sweetness and a favour here and there. A compliment or two. Make you feel special. Then you’re under their thumb, and they’d rather crush you than let you wiggle free.”

Tinsley stared at her in silence for a moment. “Oh.”

“Ignore my ranting. I’m just currently witnessing our secretary deciding she’s going to quit.” She glanced at the small group they had parted from. “I see you were talking to Ricky Goldsworth’s fanclub.”

“Was I?”

“You’re lucky you got away so early. Now they’ll just talk about who might be lucky enough to bed him at the end of the night.” She rolled her eyes. “As if any of them would stand a chance.”

Tinsley looked at the group, all gossiping and giggling, and they suddenly irritated him immensely. He looked across the room, and he took a mouthful of his drink as he watched Ricky dancing with one of the twins, her little hands in his, and he was moving playfully, jokingly, spinning her as many times as she wished, but Tinsley didn't quite find it funny. The way Ricky's hips moved wasn't exactly amusing to Tinsley as he began to imagine that it would be him who would undress Ricky at the end of the night, that it would be him who would push his fingers under the fabric of the man's shirt, bring it back off his shoulders, kiss him, oh how he would kiss him. To be under the sheets with him, to touch him all over, it would be a dream. It _was_ a dream. Tinsley quickly pushed the thoughts aside, turning away and leaving the scene. He felt hot all over, prickly. He pulled his collar loose with vigor, taking a few gulps of his drink. He didn’t usually have thoughts like this, about anyone, ever. It must just be the alcohol. He should stop drinking.

He stood outside to cool down, lighting a cigarette, exhaling the smoke sharply, like he wished he could exhale the strange thoughts from his head. He wasn’t blind. He knew Ricky was attractive, much more handsome than an average man, and more beautiful than an average woman too. He knew that he was full to the brim with sugar and spice and all things nice. Everyone knew. Ricky Goldsworth was a catch, he ticked all the boxes; good-looking, intelligent, charismatic, rich. But he was a man. Tinsley wasn’t attracted to men. He was rarely attracted to anyone at all. He couldn’t remember the last time someone made his heart flutter or his pulse race. Until now.

Tinsley paced in a small circle before coming to an abrupt halt, cigarette in his mouth and hands in his pockets. Maybe this was dangerous. Maybe he should steer away from Ricky, if he was starting to evoke such… thoughts. It only meant trouble. And Tinsley had, for a long time now, thought himself a sort of… broken. He simply didn’t care for sex. He could easily live without it. It wasn’t a priority to him, like it was to seemingly every other man out there. He had been certain that he could go for the rest of his days without it. Until now.

“Hello.”

Tinsley turned his head, too immersed in his thoughts to reply for a moment or two. “Hi.”

“I’m Isabella, Ricky’s sister.” She extended a hand, which he shook. “You’re the detective, aren’t you?”

Tinsley smiled. “One of them.”

“One of the better ones, I’m sure,” she smiled back. She was very pretty, with thick dark hair and strong black eyebrows and large dark eyes, like her brother. “What has you outside alone? That’s not approved at one of my family’s parties, you know.”

He blinked. “Oh, sorry, I-”

“I was joking.” She took out a tin of cigarettes, offering him one, which he politely declined. “You looked quite lost in your own thoughts.”

“A bad habit of mine.”

She laughed, much more heartily than he would have expected from her. “You’re very cute. Like a tall puppy.”

He wasn’t quite sure how to react to this. “Thank you.”

“How tall are you?”

“Six four on good days.”

“A _very_ tall puppy.” Her face suddenly lit up at the sound of the song coming from inside. By the additional noise of chairs scraping and excitable chatter, Tinsley suspected that it was quite a popular song. “Do you dance, detective?”

“If it’s required of me,” he replied.

“Well I require it.”

She took hold of his arm and led him inside, and it seemed that everyone was up and dancing in pairs. Most were singing, too. He recognized it now; _That’s Amore._ Isabella brought him right into the throng of people, and he automatically placed his hands where they were expected for a dance; one holding hers, and the other on her back. She spoke over the noise, eyes sparkling.

“We love this song!” she said. “Because it mentions Napoli, where we’re from!”

“Yes, Ricky told me about the time you visited.”

She smiled. “He seems very fond of you.”

Tinsley feigned disinterest. “Does he? That’s nice. I- I can't say I know much about him.” He cleared his throat. “He likes gardening, right?”

“Well at least he’s gotten good at it.”

“Was he not good?”

“He used to over-water the plants,” she laughed. “Mamma always said it was because he never knew when to stop giving. Ricky can be very strange. He has a temper to rival the gods, but he has a love to rival them too. If Ricky loves you, you know you’re safe.”

Tinsley cast a glance aside, a quick scan of the room, and he found Ricky’s face, and the guy didn’t look too fond of him at all in that current moment. In fact, he seemed angry, watching Tinsley with narrowed eyes, standing on the edge of the dancers. Tinsley arched an inquisitive eyebrow at the stare, and Ricky tilted his chin sharply toward the kitchens. Tinsley excused himself, grabbing the opportunity to speak with Ricky. The man had been oddly elusive for most of the night, appearing sporadically to glow in his periphery, but disappearing once Tinsley tried to get him into focus, like some type of angel. Or perhaps more of a demon, as Tinsley was about to discover. 

He followed Ricky into the empty kitchen, and paused at the furious look on the man's face. When Ricky snapped at him to close the door, Tinsley closed it without hesitation, feeling his breath wavering in his chest. Then he waited, and he waited, and he grew more puzzled as Ricky grew more enraged. Eventually Tinsley burst out a: "What did I do?"

"Don't toy with me, detective. I wouldn't have put you down as a slimeball, but maybe I was incorrect."

"Excuse me?"

"Excuse you? Not a chance!" Ricky threw his hands to the heavens with a baffled shake of his head, eyes wide. "You're quite the expert at acting the innocent, aren't you?"

"That's because I am!" Tinsley closed his eyes, his own hands raised to try and cool the conversation. "Wait, I- One minute you like me, the next you don't."

"One minute you're likable, the next you aren't."

Tinsley straightened up at this, his mouth a firm line. “And what made me unlikable now, hm?”

“Watching you drool all over my sister,” shot back Ricky. “You leave her alone, capsici? She’s had enough of disloyal men in her life.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Tinsley was almost laughing at the audacity of the accusation. “I wasn’t ‘drooling’ over your sister. I simply danced with her, which was initiated _by_ her.”

“I saw you,” said Ricky with narrowed eyes. “I saw the way you were dancing.”

“How many drinks have you had?”

Ricky started mimicking him, a few quick steps around the tiles, hands raised as if holding a woman oh so respectfully. “Oh look at me, I’m _such_ a gentleman, all this charm and chivalry is a complete accident on my part, pardon me.”

Tinsley blinked. “You’re drunk. You have to be.”

“Just leave her be, okay?”

“I’m not trying anything with your sister,” persisted Tinsley, leaning on the counter with one hand, his other hand on his hip. “I’m married, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve met her. She’s a bitch.”

Tinsley’s face didn’t change. “I know.”

“Then why are you still with her?”

“I don’t know,” came the sharp reply. “I just tend to attract people who are bitches, I guess.”

Ricky’s mouth fell open at the pointed look thrown at him, his face flushing. “How _dare_ you. I-”

“Don’t throw a damn tantrum, alright. You’re a grown man. Act like one.”

Ricky stared at him in stunned silence, his eyes wide. “Who gave you the right to even _think_ you can talk to me like that.”

“I’ll talk to you the way you need to be talked to.”

There was a silence as this sentence was registered. Then Ricky moved forward, one slow step at a time, and Tinsley felt the bump of the counter against his back before he’d even noticed he was moving too. His hands dropped to grip the counter either side, knuckles white, but he didn’t look away from the other man’s eyes. They were angry, glittering, but there was something else there too, something that made Tinsley think that perhaps he wasn’t going to have his head taken off his shoulders after all. He swallowed hard, bracing himself for whatever was about to come. He felt Ricky's fingers slide behind the knot of his tie and yank him down with such sharpness his hair bounced forward, a few light strands falling across his forehead. Ricky's eyes were dark and hot, dropping down Tinsley's face to fix on his mouth, his own mouth parting to bare just a glimmer of teeth. It seemed like he was about to speak. Maybe he did speak. But even if he had, Tinsley wouldn't have noticed. He was too caught up in the proximity, the heat of it, the fact that he could feel Ricky's breath ghosting across his lips, slightly smoky, fruity from the wine, and so close he could almost taste him. Tinsley brought a hand to rest over Ricky's where it held his tie, fingers wrapping around the back of his hand, thumb slipping into his palm. Not pushing for release, just holding. Ricky's shoulders visibly froze at the touch. His breath stopped on Tinsley's mouth, and his eyes flickered back up to meet his, the glare softening into confusion, then surprise. Then it sharpened on something over Tinsley's shoulder, and he suddenly whipped away, hands on his hips as he swiftly put space between them. Tinsley turned his head, bristling with a sudden anger at the disturbance. It was just a waiter.

"Sorry," said the waiter, standing with an empty tray. "I was just about to clean up."

He said this pointedly, watching Ricky. Tinsley frowned at the tone, looking back at Ricky, who was leaning against the opposite counter with his arms folded and gaze fixed aside, brows drawn together into a scowl. He didn't move until Tinsley had left. Then he strode past the waiter, ordering a drink to be brought to his room in ten minutes. The waiter followed him up in five.

Ricky sat on the edge of his bed, undoing the cuffs of his sleeves. "Leave it there."

The waiter put the tray down on the chest of drawers, straightening back up. He was watching Ricky with bright and eager eyes. "Is there anything else I can get you? Sir?"

Ricky didn't raise his head, but he raised his gaze. His face remained neutral. He got to his feet, finishing rolling up his second sleeve, and crossed the room towards the waiter, but he didn't go to him. He stopped at the drinks, pouring himself one, adding in soda, ice, one cube at a time. He let the waiter stew as he did so. Then he said: "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-two, sir. Twenty-three this year."

Ricky felt relieved, taking a taste of his drink. "You look younger."

"I'm not."

Ricky nodded, swirling his drink around in his glass as he wandered back towards his bed. He spoke casually. “What else is there that you can get me?”

“Anything. Anything else.”

Ricky kept his back to him, his eyes flickering upwards in a half-hearted roll. Easy pickings. He wanted a challenge, one like he'd just had, but he supposed he couldn’t be choosy. "Take off your clothes. Lock the door first."

Ricky didn't take off his own clothes for the duration of the act. He used his mouth on the other man, his hands, coaxing responses from him as he wished, ordering him to bite down on something when he got too loud. Dangerously loud. Ricky kept a precautionary hand across the man's moan for the majority of their time, his other hand busy below, bringing him towards the edge second by second. He watched the waiter's face as his fingers worked, with a look on his face not quite unlike a man trying to solve a strategic problem. Ricky moved down, taking him in his mouth, his fingers still working, his other arm across the man's hips to keep him in place. He finished him for the second time that night, and then decided he'd had enough. He told the waiter to get dressed and to leave, and that if he heard even a whisper in the wind of what had just happened, he'd find him and take care of him personally.

He finished his drink in solitude, not feeling entirely satisfied himself, but it was too much of a risk to take off his own clothes in any way. Not when there was so many people in his house. So he went into the bathroom and washed his hands and brushed his teeth before raising his gaze to meet his own in the mirror. He smiled, a wry curve of his mouth. It didn't feel as confident as it usually did. Then he went back downstairs to see who was still around.

He heard his sister and mother's raucous laughter almost instantly. He followed the sound through the kitchens and out into the back garden. From here, he could hear the source of their laughter too. He felt just a bit surprised.

Tinsley stopped talking when he came around the corner, his eyes watching him from over Lucy and Izzy's heads. The smile slipped from his face, just a tad.

"Well? Go on?" Izzy was leaning forwards, arms folded. "What happened after?"

Tinsley looked at her. "Uh, nothing really. That was the end."

Ricky stood between his mother and sister, and they finally noticed that he was there. Lucy took a soft hold of his hand, seeing the hard look in his eyes. Ricky's words were icy.

"Having a ball, are you, detective?"

Tinsley straightened up in his seat, his wrists resting on the table between them, fingertips just brushing the surface. He kept quiet, as he'd swiftly learned that no matter what was said, Ricky would make an argument out of it if he was in the right mood. Izzy watched their interaction with quiet curiosity, watched the unspoken words that were flowing between them. Tinsley got to his feet, smoothing down his tie.

"Perhaps I've overstayed my welcome."

"There's no perhaps about it," said Ricky, still sharp enough to cut steel to ribbons. "Leave."

"Oh Ricky, come on," said Izzy with a frown at him. "He hasn't done anything."

"No, it's fine." Tinsley finished the end of his drink, throwing it back, before dropping the glass back onto the table. "I really should be going." He passed by Ricky, throwing him a half-bow so mocking it stung. "Sir."

Ricky followed his exit with narrowed eyes, teeth gritted. "God, I can't stand him anymore."

"No, no, _you_ were in the wrong in that situation." Izzy shook her head in bafflement. "What in the world was that interaction, hm?"

"Nothing. Nothing, I- I'm going to bed." He rubbed a weary hand across his eyes, letting it drop to rest across his mouth. He spoke over his shoulder as he left. "I'll see you tomorrow."


	11. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Your heart and mine are very old friends." ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the F slur is in this chapter, just a warning!!

Ricky hadn't gone straight to bed. He had tried, but the noise from downstairs was still lingering, the general cheer refusing to die down. So he'd ended up getting dressed again and sneaking outside and grabbing a taxi to the nearest bar, where he'd sat and felt sorry for himself. Every day was a new way in which he was proving himself a fool. The entire situation was hopeless. He had avoided Tinsley for the majority of the fundraiser, but only because each time he saw him his heart would dance in his chest. So he had run away, avoided eye contact, until he'd seen Tinsley with his sister. Half of him had been sincere defense of his sister; she had had a husband already, a filthy scoundrel of an Englishman, and Ricky had disposed of him as soon as he'd been given the go-ahead by his mother. But the other half of him had seen Isabella dancing with Tinsley and had thought: _That should be me._ But it hadn't been him, and it would never be. Ricky nursed his tumbler of whiskey, and had thought about things past, present, future. All were bleak. 

"Sorry young man, but I can't help but notice that you look a bit down."

Ricky turned his head at the voice. It was an older gentleman, with a neat goatee and small circular spectacles, and a grey hat that matched his grey suit. One hand was occupied with a snifter of brandy, the other with a book of Russian poetry and prose. He seemed genuinely curious, his pale eyes patient. Ricky shook his head.

"It's nothing. Nothing I'd want to weigh down a stranger with."

"Is that an accent I hear?"

Ricky nodded. "It is."

"Italian?"

"Yes."

"I've been to Italy, you know. Beautiful country. Fabulous food."

"Oh? Whereabouts did you visit?"

"Milan, if I remember correctly."

Ricky raised his brows. "I've never been to the north. Only the south. The south is much poorer. Not many visitors would travel that way."

"Ah. Is that why you moved over here?"

"My great-grandfather moved the family over here." Ricky waved a vague hand. "I was born here. In America. As was my mother and father. But we are all Italian."

The grey man's eyes blinked once or twice. "You're not... one of the Garafalo family, are you?"

Ricky placed his hand on the bar top, showing the signet ring on his finger. The man got in close, peering at it.

"Ah, you are." The grey man sat back with an excited smile. "What a life you must lead. Tell me, why is a man like you, with all the money in the world and, presumably, all the women in the world, doing looking so down in a bar like this. It makes sense for me - I'm an old codger with a life of mistakes. But you? No."

Ricky shook his head, looking down into his glass. "I don't want to bother you. And I believe you probably don't want to hear about it." But he looked back at the grey man with eyes that showed loud and clear just how much he wished to talk about it. "It's a difficult situation."

"Since the dawn of time, strangers have found strangers in bars and laid their secrets bare without fear of being judged." The man smiled, swishing his brandy around its glass. "And I love a good story."

Ricky swallowed, wondering how to begin. "...I think I'm in love."

"Oh, wonderful!"

"No. No, it's not."

"Why not? Love is a wonderful thing!"

"But I love someone that I can't possibly love," said Ricky in all earnest, turning in his seat toward the man. "There are reasons upon reasons not to love them."

"Well, set the scene for me first. Who's the lucky lady? What does she look like?"

Ricky closed his mouth, staring at him for a moment. "She... She's tall. And slender. And she's kind and gentle, but she's not weak. She's the kind of person who really, truly, would never hurt a fly. She's smart too. And she has the most lovely eyes, so- so serene. And her voice is the most relaxing thing to listen to, warm, sweet, just perfect. When I'm not with her, all I can do is think about her. And when I am with her, all I can think about is how to make her happy."

The man smiled wistfully at this. "Yes, the first days are always the happiest, aren't they."

Ricky shook his head, letting it hang forward as he did so. His dark curls swooned dramatically. "No. I- I was cruel. Only a few hours ago." He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, I was a fool. I always am when I let my emotions take hold of me, but never that. I was awful to him."

"Him? You mean _her_." The man smiled kindly after offering his correction. "Surely you couldn't have been so bad. You seem like a nice man, through and through. Genuine. Much too much yourself to even pretend to be anyone else."

Ricky raised his gaze, and it was surprisingly tearful, but he blinked them under control. "You seem worldly. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course. What else am I in this moment for?"

"...How do you apologize to someone you love?" Ricky turned to face him more directly, his hands out to brush at the air as he spoke. "I want to apologize, sincerely, I do. I don't want to risk anything here, she- she can be-" He brought his fingertips to his mouth while he thought, as if to prevent any careless words slipping out. "Like a deer. Easily startled, frightened away. A loud noise, or a sudden movement, and she could be gone. Just like that." He clicked his fingers. His gaze went distant, distressed at the mere thought. "And I do love her. I truly believe I do."

"Perhaps I could be the Watson to your Holmes with this puzzle, sir." The man finally closed over his book, marking the page with a drink coaster. "Describe the feeling."

Ricky debated backing away entirely. _Love? What? I know nothing of it. I've never seen it, heard it, let alone felt it._ But if he wasn't going to confront the issue with a stranger, then he was never going to confront it. "When I... When..." He drifted off, trying to piece it together in his mind. "When we are together, it's just like time doesn't exist. It's so natural, genuine, but most of all it is simple. I enjoy being around her, and she enjoys being around me. But it wasn't meant to be like so, not at all. It wasn't meant to happen. It was an accident. Maybe it was just down to an accidental word, or a touch, but I can't pinpoint when I began to get these... feelings. They just hit me, out of the blue, with such intensity I thought I'd collapse and never get back up."

The man laughed at this, but it wasn't mocking. He seemed delighted at the words. "Took your breath away."

"Entirely." Ricky pressed his hands together in front of his mouth, like a prayer. "I feel like our personalities... They fit together. Perfectly. What she is... She is everything I lack. Thoughtful, cautious, kind, she is all the minuscule parts of me blown up into proportion. In loving her, I'm learning to love the parts of myself I never knew existed. And I feel as if she is doing the same, as if being around me is helping her love herself. At least, that is what I want. More than anything." He swallowed. "I want her to know that she is worth ten times more than what she thinks."

A nod, like a doctor finding a correct diagnosis to a litany of symptoms. "Yes. That is love. The purest form there is, and it is the most difficult to try and fix."

"So please," said Ricky, his eyes large. "How do I apologize for what I said? What I did?"

"Flowers," came the first bright suggestion.

Ricky closed his eyes. "No. I couldn't possibly."

"A date to her favourite place."

"I can't."

"A night of love," came a third suggestion, accompanied with a mischievous smile. "All about her."

Ricky swallowed hard, beginning to realize that this stranger couldn't possibly understand his predicament. "If only there was a chance."

"Oh. It's unrequited." The sentence was deflated. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I never expected anything different."

The stranger smiled a sad smile. "But she does mean a lot to you, I take it."

"Yes. Yes, more than I would have expected."

"Then you must apologize in the most meaningful way known to man." The stranger clapped a hand on Ricky's shoulder, giving him an encouraging squeeze. "With nothing but good, honest words."

Ricky nodded, looking down into his drink, as if the future lay in the bottom of the glass. "But what if she doesn't accept it? What am I to do then?"

"Well, that's life, young man. Sometimes all a person can do is say 'I tried' and then continue onward." He leaned forward, secretive, his bushy grey brows raised. "I almost didn't continue onward, you know. I was going to throw myself from the roof of a building one night, not too long ago."

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry."

"But you're wondering why I didn't do it," grinned the man. "You have the most wonderfully expressive eyes, you know. Bright and brilliant. But that's neither here nor there. No, what stopped me was the return of something I loved."

"A woman?"

"No. Bees." The man continued on before Ricky could begin to express his confusion. "I was confined to house arrest a few years ago. In a hotel, nonethless, as I was a frequent guest with a regular suite. On the roof lived the janitor - a lovely man, we came from the same town, a town famous for its sweet apples - and up there he kept bees. Beehives. And one summer they left, and they didn't return for a year. But they did return on that night." He sat back in his chair, his pale eyes distant. "Yes, I remember. I was wearing my favourite dinner jacket, as I thought I may as well die in my finery. I was just at the edge, and I heard my friend call me. He pointed them out, the little black dots buzzing against the purple sky, like- like reverse stars. But he gave me a piece of honeycomb, and when I bit into it he leaned forward and whispered-" The man acted it out, leaning toward Ricky, whispering: "Do you taste it?"

Ricky blinked a few times; confused, but altogether intrigued. "What was it? What was the taste?"

"The apples," said the main with pure delight. "The apples from our hometown. Sweet, crisp, clear as day in the taste of that honey. The bees had gone and come back, and with them they had brought me hope to keep on living." He once again clapped Ricky on the shoulder, a gesture he seemed fond of. "The things which you love will return to you. And it will be sweet, and crisp, and clear as day. For me, it was those bees. For you, it may be your lucky lady. But life has a funny way of working out in the end. Ironic. Truly bizarre. But my, it's wonderful."

Ricky eyed the brandy in the snifter, and wondered whether it was his ninth or tenth of the night. "I see."

The man's laughter swept off to a sigh. "No, you don't. You're much too young. But I hope one day you stand and remember what I said - life is wonderful."

Ricky nodded slowly, getting to his feet. "Thank you, mister..?"

"It doesn't matter." The man spoke with sudden urgency, his brows rising. "Go to her, and tell her with all the honesty you can muster, that you're sorry."

"...Okay. But I'm trusting you on this." Ricky swapped to a mutter. "Even though you are a stranger."

"That's all the more reason to trust me," said the man with another smile. "A friend will have five reasons to lie to you, an enemy fifty. But a stranger? A stranger is the most honest person you can find."

* * *

Tinsley sat at his desk and picked apart the end of his tie. It had caught on the door of the café he'd nipped into, and now it was becoming threaded. He was helping it along, drawing a single red thread out at a time and letting them drift onto his desk. They were light as dust, floating as he let go of them, and he watched them with sad eyes, until a cup of coffee was set down on top of them with enough vigor to make him jump.

"He loves me, he loves me not, hm?" Darla perched herself on the edge of his desk, her own coffee in hand. "Why the long face, Tins? Hungover?"

"No," came the slow reply. "No, I didn't even drink that much."

"Yes. You left early, too."

Tinsley looked up at her, as if caught off-guard. "What? No I didn't."

"Yes you did." She raised a dark eyebrow. "I saw you, you know. You went into the kitchen with Ricky Goldsworth and then you left all in a hurry. And-"

"That's reason enough to leave in a hurry, I say." Holly didn't look up from her work as she spoke. "And I'm surprised you even turned up today, Miss Delaney, considering the fact you were busy being manipulated into a new job the entire night."

"Lucy Goldsworth is much more fun than you," said Darla, getting to her feet and moving back to her own desk with short steps in her small heeled shoes. "And much nicer. Neither of which is _my_ fault, I'll have you know."

Holly gave her an unimpressed look from over her glasses. "Get back to work. Or do you need me to give you more?"

Darla sat down and shut up in quick succession, and the tick-tacking of her typewriter once again became the background noise of the room, as the tweeting of birds is to a forest. Tinsley swept the threads off his desk and into his hand, brushing them off his palm and into the trashcan beside him. Then he tried to concentrate, and repeatedly failed. All he could think of was Ricky, and the burning anger in his eyes, but it hadn't been alone. There had been some other emotion in there, some subcategory of anger, like frustration, or jealousy, and Tinsley couldn't help but wonder where it had come from. And then the biting words at the end of the night, the icy exchange as he'd left. He couldn't understand it at all, any of it. What had he done?

The door to the office opened, and a moustached face with a police chief hat poked his head in with a cheery: "Knock knock!"

Holly sighed wearily. "You have to actually knock, Banjo, or else you defeat the purpose."

"Well, it's not like you'd have been able to refuse me anyway, I'm afraid." He stepped aside. "It's Mr Goldsworth. For Detective Tinsley."

Ricky stood in his black coat like a scolded schoolchild; he may as well have had his hands behind his back and the toe of his shoe scuffing against the ground. He looked at Tinsley and smiled a tiny smile, keeping his head somewhat ducked. Tinsley stood up, dusting himself off, suddenly wishing he hadn't picked his tie so much. It looked scruffy, unkempt. He pulled it off over his head as he circled his desk, dropping it into the trash as he went. Oh, he hadn't shaved either, and he'd only had time to touch a brush to his hair that morning. However, there was not much he could do about that. He stepped outside and joined Ricky in the corridor, and they waited in silence as Holly and Banjo dissolved into conversation that ended up with Holly joining him in going to his office. Their footsteps disappeared down the hallway. Tinsley fiddled with his sleeves where they were rolled around his elbows, and waited for Ricky to look him in the eye, which he eventually did.

They each took a deep breath, in unison, their eyes locked. Neither spoke as they each focused on not wavering, flinching, breaking apart on the spot. Tinsley's eyes fluttered like a damsel's, as they had a tendency to do when he was faced with such stress. Ricky watched the feathery lashes move, and again he was struck by the sudden softness of the man in front of him. But then the detective folded his arms, and Ricky was equally struck by the strength in the bare forearms, but it was without a doubt a strength used for activities such as hefting large piles of books around, or lifting a lover into bed. Never to harm. Not like him. Ricky tucked his own hands into his coat pockets, his head ducking aside. He chewed on his lip, suddenly feeling overwhelmed in his shame. He mumbled his words.

"I'm sorry. For last night. For what I said. And how I acted."

Tinsley's reply was a touch surprised, but just as gentle as it always was. "It's okay."

Ricky looked up at him, just as taken aback at the other man's forgiveness as Tinsley was at his apology. Neither were too used to receiving such things. Ricky managed to say: "Really?"

"Yes."

Ricky's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, his brows drawing together in a frown. "I... Why?"

"Why not?" Tinsley shrugged, looking down at the ground as he rhythmically scuffed the heel of his shoe off it. "You seem sincere. And who am I to reject a sincere apology?"

Ricky wasn't quite sure what to do. Half of him wanted to grab hold of the other man and shake him, demand him to fight back, to give him the solid emotion of anger that he could bang his fists against. Not this suffocating kindness, this endless serene sea to drown in. "...You _could_ reject it. I was brash. Stupid. I deserve it."

"I don't want to reject it."

Ricky felt the words crack him inside, like a hand through a sheet of ice. He blurted: "How are you like this?"

Tinsley inclined his head, the beginnings of an amused smile on his face. "Like what?"

"So- So-" Ricky raised his hands to chest, letting them clench into fists. "In control. Always."

"I don't know. Practice, I suppose. Lots of practice."

"You have to teach me." Ricky tried a smile on for size, but it was too small. His shoulders slumped. "Really. You do."

Tinsley laughed, a hearty chuckle. "That might take a while. And actually, I wouldn't want to. You're lucky in a way, you know. Not everyone has the guts to spill their feelings to the world. And even then, you hurl yours like a pitcher."

Ricky gave him a wry look. Then he simply extended his hand, an eyebrow raised. "So I'm forgiven for my crimes, detective?"

Tinsley rolled his eyes, but he took hold of the offered hand, giving it a firm but gentle shake. "Sure thing, Mr Goldsworth."

Ricky kept a hold of his hand, his lips pressed in a line as he looked down at their grip. "You were right, though. I do need to be talked to that way sometimes. If I don't have a voice of common sense _in_ my head, it had best come from outside then."

"No, I'm at fault too. I shouldn't have insulted you the way I did."

"I provoked you."

"I let myself get provoked."

"But I-"

"Perhaps we had better settle this," smiled Tinsley, their hands finally drifting apart. "Over lunch. On me, this time."

Ricky smiled, his heart skipping. "Sounds good."

Tinsley checked his watch as he turned away, crossing the corridor to poke his head back into the office. "Darla, I'm taking my break now! If anyone calls just tell them I'm at a work thing."

"Will do."

"Toss me my coat and scarf, would you?"

The coat and scarf were tossed, and Tinsley wrapped himself up in them as he led the way outside, into the chilly air. He smiled down at Ricky, his cheeks and the tip of his nose already turning a pleasant shade of pink, and said: "Well? Where to?"

They ended up in the same diner they had been in the last time, where it had poured rain and Ricky had first felt the feeling he hadn't stop feeling since. It was a bit busier this time, the schools beginning to be let out for lunch. The same waitress was there; she smiled at them before pointing at a table down the end, next to the window. Then she went off to get menus and two coffees.

"I kept that leaf you made me use as a bookmark," said Tinsley, slipping into the booth. "Unfortunately, it crumbled away, so I'm back to dog-earing my pages."

"Oh, don't say that. Just use a train ticket or something!"

"Well I finished the book, so-"

Ricky raised a hand to silence him. "No, don't tell me how it ends. I'm only halfway through."

Tinsley looked understandably surprised. "You're reading it?"

"It grabbed my curiosity. I just had to." He shrugged his shoulders, arms folded on the table. "And it's good. I like it. I like their characters. It's well-written."

Tinsley still seemed baffled, his brows drawn together. "But if you were... If someone saw you with that book, would it not..."

"No one will see it," said Ricky, getting the gist. "It's in my mother's, and when I'm done with it, it's going in the fire. As it has to."

"Oh. Oh, uh, your organization is really that strict about it, hm?"

"To a warped amount. I won't deny it." Ricky raised his brows, an unimpressed look. "But I won't approve of it, either. It's no one else's business who loves who."

"Good. Good, I agree." Tinsley let out a sudden laugh, a breathy sound, relieved. "God, that first time when you almost caught me reading it, I was goddamn terrified. Thought you'd gut me on the spot."

"It's just a book," said Ricky, sitting back as the white ceramic cups of coffee and their matching saucers were placed down between them. "And there's far worse pieces of literature out there."

"Oh, without a doubt."

"I'll give you boys a few minutes to order, alright?" smiled the waitress, most of the smile aimed at Ricky. "Just call me when you need me."

Tinsley watched her leave, his mood dampening considerably. "...She likes you."

"Oh?" Ricky's response was disinterested as he perused the menu. "You think?"

"Without a doubt. But you must get it all the time."

"A little."

Tinsley stirred his coffee with the spoon provided, his curiosity niggling him. "Do you mind me asking why you aren't married? Engaged? Anything?"

Ricky raised his gaze, a dark brow arched. "Because I haven't met anyone."

"Not even a mistress?"

"Well, I just don't approve of that pasttime." Ricky dropped his eyes back to the menu, but they didn't move to read anything. "If I met someone, they would be it for me. I'm not the type of man who can flit from one bed to the next, and I wouldn't want to."

Tinsley nodded. "That's fair. And also respectable. Everytime I talk to you, you just knock all stereotypes out of the field."

Ricky smiled at this. "I'm glad." He paused for a moment, going red as a berry. "I'm so sorry. I just remembered that I insulted your wife last night. I didn't-"

"It's okay."

"I- You just-" Ricky fumbled for a way to end his line of thought. He had called Tinsley's wife a bitch, but Tinsley had agreed. Outright. "You just seem very... different. To her."

"Well, opposites attract, and all that," said Tinsley dryly, thankful for the approaching waitress.

They placed their orders, and then lapsed back into a strange silence. It was indescribably tense - not in a negative way, but in a way that made it clear that both had brought up a touchy topic that they each wanted to know the ins-and-outs of. Tinsley wanted to know why and how Ricky was still a bachelor, and Ricky wanted to know whether Tinsley was happy with his wife. Little did Ricky know that his question was about to be answered for him, with a whole song and dance included.

Tinsley's face drained of colour, and he wound down to a halt, his eyes unblinking. "Oh Christ."

Ricky turned to follow his alarmed gaze, and there was a woman staring right back at them from outside. A particular woman. Tinsley's wife. He felt a flash of terror, like he'd been caught under the sheets with someone else's partner. But why? He was just having lunch. Yet when he looked back at Tinsley, the panic was identical. He had put down his coffee and was halfway to his feet by the time she reached the door, and Ricky stayed sitting, his wide eyes watching the scene unfold until they couldn't get any wider.

She started shouting instantly, but it was slurred, the words almost indistinguishable from each other, but he heard a few. _Liar. Disgrace. Sham._ She was drunk, and she was angry. Yet before she could really take off, Tinsley scooped her over his shoulder and carried her out of the café, like a farmer with a sack of potatoes. Her wild gaze had landed on Ricky, furious, and she'd screamed one word.

"FAGGOT!"

He flinched at the hatred in her voice, his fists clenching on the table. Why that word? Why that insult? How would she possibly know about him? It had never been in the papers, it had never left his private life. He sat stone still, his heart pounding in his throat, only his eyes following as Tinsley struggled with her outside, holding her by her arms as he maneuvered her to the nearest taxi. He bundled her inside and spoke a few short words to the driver before stepping back and letting it speed off down the road. Ricky watched him stand with his hands on his hips and his head hanging forward, watched him rake a hand through his hair as he took sharp steps in a sharp circle. Only when he was finished pacing did he come back inside, and he kept his face tilted away. The few customers were staring, as was the waitress.

"Ricky, I- I'm so sorry, I didn't-"

"It's okay," said Ricky, the words feeling numb in his mouth. "It's not your fault."

"I- I just-" He placed a hand over his eyes, letting out a sharp breath. "God, I'm so embarrassed. I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything." Ricky got to his feet, placing a hand on the taller man's arm. "Her actions aren't your responsibility. I'd never assume they were."

"And the things she said, I- She's drunk. She was drinking. It was just gibberish."

Ricky swallowed hard. "Yes. Of course."

"I understand if you want to leave. I do."

"Not at all." Ricky sat back down with purpose, trying the beginnings of a smile. The downcast look on Tinsley's face was breaking his heart. "...Is she often like that?"

Tinsley sat down, sinking into his chair, looking as if he'd rather sink through the floor and out of the situation. "Only when she drinks."

"And does she drink often?"

"...A little."

Ricky placed the pity aside; he was done with it for now. He had a whole line of emotions to get through, and the next was anger. "She can't talk to you like that. Why would she even want to?" Without thinking he reached across the table and took hold of Tinsley's hand, tight. "You're not any of the things she said. You're not. You're the kindest, most sweet-hearted person I've met in a _long_ time - I'd almost say my whole life. And you don't deserve that treatment. You, of all people, don't deserve it."

For a moment, Tinsley stared at him in stunned silence. Then he gave Ricky's hand a thankful squeeze, accompanied by a small smile, but he didn't speak. His throat worked, and his eyes had started to water. He took his hand away and wiped at his eyes, sniffing.

"Christ, I'm sorry. One embarrassment to the next."

Ricky took a napkin from the tin dispenser at the end of the booth, handing it to him before he said quite sternly: "Crying isn't an embarrassment."

"I never cry," said Tinsley, patting at his eyes with the napkin.

"You should." Ricky took a deep breath, wondering whether he was about to reveal too much. "I cry almost every day."

Tinsley blinked. "You what? Every day?"

"Most days. I cried last night."

"Why?"

"Because I felt bad about how I acted toward you." Ricky shrugged his shoulders, taking hold of the saucer under his coffee and pulling it forward so that he could give his eyes something to stare at instead of the man in front of him. "But it was more tears of frustration than anything else. And I- I cry when I'm happy. And when I laugh too much. And if I watch a sad movie, or hear a sad song. Well, not even a sad song, but if a song just makes me... _feel_ too much of anything. And I definitely cry when I'm angry."

"Wow." Tinsley managed a smile, putting the napkin into his pocket. "You do cry a lot."

"As much as I need to." He stirred his coffee absent-mindedly, his gaze lowered to watch it. "I wouldn't like to know what I'd be like if I didn't. It can't be good for you, to just keep everything inside. A person can only hold so much before they break. Just like everything else in the world."

Tinsley watched the man as he spoke, and once again found himself just as appreciate of his looks as he was of his words. Both were beautiful. He had the urge to reach over, to touch him so lightly, to trace the smooth lines of his face, to draw him in and kiss him on his lips. His chest ached with the need for it, and he slipped his hands around his cup of coffee to keep them under control.

"I think I'm very lucky to have met you," he said. "In a way."

"Just in one way?"

"The only way that matters." He shrugged. "You make me feel... safe."

Ricky swallowed. "Safe?"

"Yes." Tinsley smiled, a perfect little curve of his mouth, like a child might draw on the sun. "I could get fired for saying this, but you're a good- a good friend."

Ricky's heart could've soared into orbit. It could've soared _out_ of orbit, and into endless space, and rivaled the sun with the intensity of its warm glow. "Friend?"

A flicker of timidity passed over Tinsley's face. "Is that a bad thing? Maybe we shouldn't-"

"No! No, I'd like to be friends." Ricky took a breath, settling himself down. "I think that would be nice."

"I think it would be nice too. If not dangerous. And a bit stupid."

"Entirely dangerous and stupid." He smiled. "But all the best friendships are."

Tinsley laughed. "I see no fault in your argument."

"Do you want another coffee?"

"I'd love another coffee."

Ricky stood up; he had to, before he floated off into the air with the sudden ecstasy he was feeling. He almost wanted to thank Tinsley's wife for making such a scene and giving him an excuse to solidify what he had with Tinsley. Friendship. _Friendship._ If he couldn't have him in any other way, friendship would most certainly suffice. He ordered the two coffees, and brought them back to the table, setting them down, and once again it was he and Tinsley hidden away in the corner of a coffee shop while the world outside marched on. The hazy hours he snatched with Tinsley were swiftly becoming the one thing he looked forward to without fail; they were stolen, and therefore delicious. For the next forty minutes, they sat and talked about all things under the sun. Ricky talked about his family, all the various uncles and aunts and cousins, and Tinsley talked about his parents, and how close they had been before the crash. He had been an only child, and the majority of his company growing up could still be found on the bookshelves in his house. Ricky, on the other hand, had never been alone, to the extent where during his teenage years he had yearned for some solitary moments. The aspects of their lives were different in almost every regard, yet they had an impressive amount in common too - their humour, their mindsets, their appreciativeness of the arts. It all flowed so smoothly that time was lost to them, until a knock on the window brought them back to reality.

It was a different woman staring at them through the window this time. Tinsley recognized her instantly, from a night that seemed like an eternity away, where he'd been bundled into a car and carted out to a house in the hills. It had been the night he'd met Ricky, and he had felt terrified at the time, the thought of facing Ricky Goldsworth a thought more threatening than any other he'd ever had. Now here he was, meeting him regularly for casual chats. What had happened?

Francesca Norris invited herself into the café and over to their table, standing beside them with her hands in her pockets. She most certainly had a preference for masculine clothing, once again dressed in brogues, trousers, and a shirt. Tinsley waited for her to speak, seeing the sudden guiltiness on Ricky's face.

"Afternoon, boss." Fran made a show of checking her watch, bringing it into the sunlight, letting it flash. "My, I could've sworn we had a meeting with a certain banker set up for an hour ago. A meeting that you didn't turn up to, so your mother went in your stead." She dropped her hand back to her pocket. "Ring any bells?"

Ricky closed his mouth, swallowing. "...That was today?"

"Indeed it was." She looked at Tinsley, an eyebrow raised. "You're the big distraction, are you?"

Tinsley went red. "I- I don't mean to be. I didn't know."

"He's not a distraction," said Ricky reprimandingly, giving his mouth a quick wipe with a napkin before standing up. "Wait for me outside."

"I-"

"Wait for me outside!" repeated Ricky with ten times the sharpness. "And you'd best remember that you're my _consigliere_ first, and my friend second."

Tinsley sat in silence as the woman tutted before doing as she was told. It frightened him, how Ricky could change like that, with as little effort as an artist painting a fresh layer on a canvas. He checked his watch, also standing.

"I should probably go too. My break should've been over fifteen minutes ago."

Ricky cleared his throat, his dark eyes lowered, troubled. "Sure. Of course."

He slipped on his coat and scarf, knotting it around his neck. "I'll... see you around."

Ricky nodded, biting on his lip. "I'm sorry you had to hear me like that. Work... demands different of me than anything else does."

"I understand."

"And hold on, I was meant to give something to Detective Horsley." Ricky picked up his coat off the booth, checking the pockets, retrieving a white envelope with looped letters on the front. "My mom was insistent on giving Holly an invitation to the library opening. Said it was necessary. Could you give it to her for me?"

Tinsley nodded, taking the envelope, observing the writing. "Sure. I'll give it as soon as I get back."

"Thank you."

Without much warning, and still with a distracted demeanour, Ricky placed a hand on the side of the taller man's neck and drew him down to kiss him on the cheek. It was casual, a brushing of lips against skin, but Tinsley's eyes flew wide open in shock. He didn't move an inch as Ricky left the café and joined Fran outside, the two of them moving off down the path, talking animatedly, until they were out of sight. Tinsley touched his cheek, which still tingled with the sensation. He was so stunned Ricky may as well have slapped him.

"Well?" The waitress stood at the till, a hand on her hip. "You going to pay or not?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry."


	12. For Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature."_ \- Jane Austen (and some inspiration for Ricky)

Late in the evening, and Holly was still working. It wasn't new for her. She enjoyed her work, and she enjoyed doing it alone, late at night, when everyone else had gone home. Yet even though everyone else had gone home, she still wasn't alone in the office. Much to her chagrin, Lucy was sitting across the desk from her, going over the finer details of her plan. Or scheme, more accurately. Holly listened, but didn't contribute. Not until Lucy was winding down, which itself took quite a while. She was just like the rest of the family; once she was on a subject she wished to discuss, she'd leave claw marks in it rather than let it drift off before she was done with it. Only when she had finished did Holly look up from her work.

"You've told me why I should want Nonnina gone, which was quite set in stone already," she said. "But you haven't told me why _you_ want her gone."

Lucy arched at eyebrow at the suspicious tone. "She's a bad influence on Ricardo."

"You're all bad influences. The issue is that she's a bad influence that isn't under your control." Holly's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "But even so, you're acting quite hastily. Which is odd, for you."

"Is it?"

"We're both people who can see things not as they are, not as they will be in a week, or even a month. We can see things as they will be in years. And we both plan in accordance." Holly repeated her question. "So why the haste?"

Lucy stared at her for a moment in silence. She had to speak, and speak soon, or Holly would plow ahead and pick it all apart in seconds. "Because she's a threat to my family."

"No she isn't. She's a threat to _you._ " Holly was as focused as a cat moving in on a bird. "Is there something you've done that you can't have her find out?"

"Perhaps. But either way, it wouldn't be any of your concern."

"It's a little bit of my concern."

"Not enough for me to tell you what it is." Lucy sparked her lighter and lit a cigarette, a very familiar set of moves. She took a drag before speaking on the exhale. “Your new detective is becoming a distraction, by the way.”

Holly gave her a long look, the weighing scales almost audible squeaking away behind her eyes. Then she licked her index finger before turning the page of the file, gaze dropping to it. “I’d appreciate it if you got to the point. I’ve developed a dislike for dramatics for the last… How many years have I known you?”

“Very funny. But I’m serious.” Lucy sat with her legs crossed and an elbow on the desk between them, her eyes narrowing at the file Holly was reading. The detective quickly closed it over, pressing a protective hand down on top of it. “My son is spending some time with Tinsley. A considerable amount. And you’re aware of my son’s… preferences.”

“I am.”

“And are you aware of Tinsley’s… preferences?”

Holly straightened up in her chair. “For God’s sake, Lucy. I’m his boss, not his best friend. I don’t know anything about him, except that he’s a good detective and that he’s married. To a woman.”

“Happily?”

“Happily what?”

“Married.”

“I don’t know, Lucy! Not all of us enjoy burying our noses in other people’s business.”

“Is that not your job?”

Holly sat back, her wrists resting on the edge of the desk, her fingers rubbing together. Then she picked up Lucy’s cigarettes and helped herself to one before tossing it back at her. “To be frank, I have no interest in your son and his respective interests.” She held the lighter to the cigarette, speaking around it. “And really, if there’s something hindering him, I should be rejoicing.”

“You-”

“And _really,_ if there’s anything that’s upsetting you about his time spent with Tinsley, it’s the fact that it could be putting him in danger. Which means that the reason you’re here is to ask me for help.” She raised an eyebrow. “Which, of course, is a sentence that you’d rather die than say.”

Lucy took a deep breath through her nose. “We’re both aware of the balance of this ecosystem, aren’t we? Either my son excels in his position and the peace remains, or he’s ousted and you have a whole heap of trouble - _violent_ trouble - on your hands. His fondness of Tinsley is something I wish he could have without worry. But he can’t. The family is only on its third generation. He is not as solidified in his position as he might think.”

Holly got to her feet, moving to the window and peering out between the slatted blinds. The office was on the third floor, but to eliminate any chance of a peeping Tom, she pulled the rope and closed the slats with a sharp _snap_ . “You’re the one who has put me in this position. I’d love nothing more than for your family to fall, but who knows what might come of it? Maybe _you_ know.” She turned back, one arm folded so her hand was resting in the opposite elbow, her other hand still holding the cigarette. “Who would be next in line, if your family was to fall? The Bosettis?”

“No. They would never let us fall. We’ve given them too much.” Lucy spread her hands. “It’s impossible to say, Holly. What is definite is that there would be chaos. These streets would be unrecognizable within a year.”

Holly sat back down, running a hand back through her hair, sighing sharply. “Well then what would you suppose I do about Tinsley? Demand him to tell me whether or not he wants to bend your son over the nearest table and have his way with him?”

Lucy sat forward and let out a sharp sound, a cross between a spit and hiss. “Don’t be ridiculous, you-”

“Then you’re finally aware of how ridiculous what you’re asking of me is!”

Lucy closed her mouth, gritting her teeth. Then she sat back, eyes closed as she regained her composure. “What about Darla? Could she ask him?”

Holly raised her eyebrows. “Well, she might. But you should ask her yourself. She’d be more likely to do it then.”

“Oh, I wonder why.” Lucy let her head tilt back, calling over her shoulder. “Mayor!”

The door handle was pushed down, and a man poked his head into the room, brows raised expectantly. “Yes, _signora?”_

“Tomorrow morning, come here and collect a Miss Darla Delaney and bring her to my house.”

“Excuse me?” Holly let out a sharp laugh of disbelief. “I’m not going to allow a complete stranger to arrive at my place of work and take away an employee.”

“Oh, apologies, ma’am.” The Mayor opened the door fully and strode over to the table. His black coat rested around his shoulders, and his hat was in one gloved hand. He extended the other hand. “I’m called the Mayor. I’ve worked for the Garafalos for a long time.”

Holly eyed the hand warily before taking it and giving it a shake. “Well then I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”

“I’ve met you before,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. “You just haven’t met me.”

“Impossible. I’m sure I would have remembered.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not insulted. If anything, it’s a compliment.”

“The Mayor carries out… certain activities for us,” said Lucy slowly, her eyes fixed on Holly’s. “ _Capisci?”_

Holly looked at the Mayor again, noting his neatness, the almost perfectionist set of his clothes, tucked in where they were meant to be tucked in and tailored to fit. Perfectionism wasn’t something that usually bothered her, but when it came to an assassin, perfectionism was a danger. He smiled at her, but despite his eyes being the palest of blues they were surprisingly warm. Holly tutted, stubbing her cigarette out.

“Where do you find these people, Lucy? Is there a store that sells bad people with good personalities?”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.”

"I'd prefer to take it as one." The Mayor continued on without waiting for a reply. "Shall I call around at half nine for Miss Delaney?"

Holly looked him over, eyes narrowing. "Ten would suit."

"Then ten it will be."

"And you can go home now, Mayor," said Lucy distractedly, checking her polished nails for any chips. "I'm quite fine by myself."

"Very well." He put his hat on over his greying hair and doffed it at Holly. "Goodnight, ma'am, _signora."_

Holly watched him go, her lips pursed as she sat back. "He's more polite than your usual, I'll admit."

"He's also much more efficient at his job." Lucy leaned forward to snub out her cigarette in the ashtray before getting to her feet and smoothing down her skirts. "I'll talk to Darla tomorrow. In the meantime, keep an eye on Tinsley for me. It would be beneficial for both of us in the long run."

Holly nodded, going back to her work with a dismissive flick of her hand. They were both women who viewed things in the long run, so there was no debate over such a statement. Lucy's heels clicked across the linoleum and the door opened and shut. Holly worked on.

* * *

Sunday morning meant church in the Goldsworth household. It was as unenjoyable as in any other household. Lorenzo Jr refused to leave his toys, Mia and Marta cried and made a fuss over having to leave their pillow forts they had made on their beds. Ricky had been called to meet Isabella at her house in an attempt to wheedle the children out, and it had worked. Isabella sighed wearily as she carried Lorenzo out to the car, following Ricky in front of her, seeing the two moody heads of the twins resting on each of his shoulders.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Ricky." Izzy kissed him on both cheeks once the children were packed away into the car. "And to think mom and dad used to say _you_ were a nightmare of a child."

"Oh, and you were a dream, were you?"

" _I_ didn't wake at three in the morning _every_ morning and scream for food!" She went to the driver's side, opening the door. "Are ma and Nonnina there already? We better not leave them alone for too long, or else we'll come across a pile of bones on the street."

They joined Lucy and Nonnina in the church, who were pointedly seated a few rows apart. Ricky and Izzy held a swift rock-paper-scissors to decide who would sit beside Nonnina and withstand both her sharp comments and her overpowering perfume. Ricky sighed heavily as Izzy's scissors snipped at his flat hand. He dragged himself to sit beside Nonnina, and she gave his cheek a pinch. Both his mother and grandmother had always been fond of the gesture. He hadn't been, and still wasn't. Thankfully, the priest had started the sermon, so there was no need for painful chat. After fifteen minutes or so, when they were kneeling, Nonnina leaned over to whisper: "What are you praying for today, Ricardo?"

He hadn't been praying for anything in particular, so he just said the usual. "To get what I want."

“There’s no point in praying to get what you want, you know,” said Nonnina, the rosary beads shifting through her fingers as she mentally reeled off the Hail Marys. “You should take what you want, and afterwards pray for forgiveness for what you’ve done.”

Ricky raised his head, turning it to look at her, his eyes unblinking and his brows drawn together in the beginnings of a frown. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. “Don’t you pray every night?”

“A person can commit many sins in twenty-four hours, Ricardo.” Nonnina still had her eyes closed, concentrating on her prayers. “What do we do all day but sin?”

Ricky dropped his gaze back to his clasped hands, his mind buzzing. He spoke quietly. “We’ve both killed. Everyone in our family has killed. Isn’t that the worst sin there is?”

“I believe so.”

“Then why do we pray?”

“Have you not read your Dante, Ricardo?” She paused to mutter the end of one prayer and then started the next. “Not all hells are created equal. At least if you pray, you can say at the gates that you tried to be a good man. Why do you think our family is so religious, after all?”

“...I used to think it was just for appearances.”

“No, no, it’s to pray for our sins. Theft, murder... and man shall not lie with man.”

Ricky felt the heat rush to his face, keeping his gaze glued to his hands. They were clasped so hard now his knuckles had turned white. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nonnina turn her head to stare at him, waiting for a reaction. He ignored her as best he could, his breath caught in his throat. A hand reached from behind to tap Nonnina on the shoulder, and Fran’s voice whispered: “Do you mind? I’m trying to enjoy this _thrilling_ sermon.”

Ricky mentally thanked her for the interruption as Nonnina turned away, and he felt Fran give his shoulder a subtle squeeze as she retracted her saving hand. He let his head hang forward, a hand raking through his hair. Then he stood up, pacing down the aisle toward the door, his footsteps echoing along with the priest’s voice. Lucy and Izzy watched him go, concern on their faces. Then Lucy’s gaze swapped back to Nonnina grey-haired head, and her eyes narrowed.

 _“La vecchia strega,”_ she muttered. “Nothing but trouble. I'm surprised she could even set foot in this building without bursting into flame.”

"She's family, ma."

"If you let a simple concept such as that dictate who deserves what, you won't live a very fulfilling life."

Isabella gave her a sidelong look. There was a brightness in Lucy's eyes, a triumphant glitter. "Mamma, what do you have planned?"

"Nothing, my love." She reached out to give her hand a distracted squeeze. "Don't fret."

Outside, Ricky stood at the front of the church’s stone facade and smoked a cigarette, rolling it in his fingers every few seconds, agitated. He didn’t want to go back inside and suffer his grandmother’s snide comments, especially as he couldn't fathom a response to such jibes. He wanted to go somewhere where no one would be breathing down his neck, asking this and demanding that. He wove through the parked cars and crossed the quiet street, the cool crisp breeze brushing the street with sunset leaves, and he headed into the post office and into one of the booths. He checked the directory and popped some change into the slot and spun in the number beside _Tinsley, Charles_. After a few minutes it was answered, sleepily.

“Hello?”

“It’s Ricky.”

“Oh! Oh, hi.” A pause. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, I-” He went quiet, wondering exactly why he had called Tinsley in the first place. It was early on a Sunday morning, and if anything, he had probably woken him. “Are you free today? Or are you working?”

“I’m free.” Tinsley cleared his throat, his voice a lot more lax after. “I’m free today.”

"Okay. Okay, good. Because I'm free too, but only if I can find something to do other than what I was meant to be doing."

A laugh. "Sure, I can help you there. Where are you?"

"The post office across from the church, but it would be easier for me to meet you at the park. At the statue." Ricky hesitated. "I want to show you something."

"...Alright. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

* * *

They had been walking for a while, the clouds hanging low overhead, but it didn't seem like a long time had passed. Time had stopped, as far as they were concerned. Or perhaps time had moved on without them, and left them alone and in peace for as long as they saw fit. Tinsley had hardly stopped talking; he had information about every little thing around them. Did you know that trees are the oldest living organisms on earth, and that the oldest one is over four thousand years old? Did you know that in Greek mythology, fall began when Persephone was abducted by Hades, and in her distress Persephone's mother caused all the crops on Earth to die until her daughter was allowed to return, which in turn marked spring? Did you know that Halloween started with the Celts, who called it Samhain, because that was when the curtain between the living and the dead was at its thinnest, and the dead could pass through? Ricky could hardly take the various facts on board, but Tinsley spoke them with the same excitement as a child, pointing at this bird and that sort of tree and those buildings.

"I know a fact you don't know," said Ricky with a grin, hurrying ahead a few steps to a gated-off dip in the path. It led to a door under a building, which seemed like nothing but a derelict shop. "See that door?"

Tinsley stopped at the wrought iron gate, looking at the door. "Yes?"

"Remember when you were in my home, and I showed you the tunnel in my cellar that was a tunnel during Prohibition?"

Tinsley's head tilted, like a puppy hearing a strange sound for the first time. "Is that it?"

"That's it."

"That leads to your house?"

"One and the same." 

"...That doesn't seem very secure."

"This is an Italian neighbourhood, Tinsley. If a stranger even stopped to blow their nose here, I'd know."

Tinsley rested his hands on the gate; the black paint had started to flake off the iron. "Why are you showing me?"

"Because if we're going to be friends, it's probably safer for both of us if we don't flaunt that fact." Ricky smiled at him. "Just ring me beforehand, and I'll leave the door open on the other end. Would you like that?"

"Yes. Yes, I think I'd like that."

"Excellent." Ricky took hold of his arm, beaming up at him. "Now, with all your facts and tidbits of knowledge, I have an idea of something we could do."

He moved on ahead, his grip drifting off Tinsley's arm, and Tinsley followed automatically. He guessed where they were going after the first block, and he was right.

The museum was a small one, modest, but light and airy and disregarding of the outside world. It consisted of two halls with paintings large and small in gold and dark wood frames, and a third greenhouse-esque area that housed sculptures, all no doubt replicas of the originals. It didn't matter. What mattered was that no one would look for them there, and no one would see them there. Ricky unbuttoned his coat as he led the way deeper into the building, leaving the quiet receptionist in the quiet reception. He had come here often with the children, but in secrecy by himself. Tinsley strolled past the paintings, their swirling oils, depicting battles and celebrations and funerals and births. When he stepped into the sculpture garden, he was overwhelmed by the sudden difference in location, how it seemed so apart from everything else. The glass overhead was beginning to become murky, and the door to the small botanic garden was open, the gravel path spreading some small stones into the greenhouse. There were multiple pieces in the soft light, some just busts or heads or torsos with missing limbs, but one dominated them all. Tinsley knew it. He'd read about it in a book before. This one was no doubt a replica of the original, but he had never even seen a replica up close. It was two lovers, entwined, in the prelude to a kiss. _The_ Kiss. That was what it was called.

"Isn't it strange?" said Ricky, looking it over. "How marble can look so much like skin? They look so real."

"Supposedly they were."

Ricky turned his head to raise an eyebrow at him. "What? Don't tell me you know all sorts of information about this too."

“He was her husband’s younger brother,” explained Tinsley, pretending not to see the cheeky roll of eyes from Ricky. “And they fell in love. But as they were sharing their first kiss, the husband found them and killed them both. It was meant to be part of some larger group, all about sinners, but the sculptor thought it was too…” He waved a hand at it, struggling to phrase the sentence. “It was too…”

“He didn’t make it look like a sin.” Ricky was staring at it, unblinking. “I don’t think his goal was to make the viewers envious.”

“No. No, it doesn’t look like a sin. That’s a good way to put it.” Tinsley found himself gazing at it too, appreciating it in a whole new light. “Apparently their lips aren’t even touching, so they died without actually committing any sin.”

Ricky swallowed. “It’s sad. Because they seem so happy. If a person didn’t know the story, they wouldn’t associate anything sad with it at all.”

“And to make it sadder, they fell in love because they were reading love stories together. Apparently you can see a book in his hand, but you have to look closely, because it's as if Rodin didn't finish carving it properly.” Tinsley was on the opposite side of the replica, looking at them almost fondly. “It was commissioned over and over again, but a lot of puritans protested it being in public. They thought it would encourage 'lewd behaviour'. How _frightfully_ distasteful.”

Ricky laughed at the mocking tone of the words. “Why is it that religion has every sort of disregard for every sort of passion? Isn't that what we all live for, in the end? Books and movies and poetry and good times with good people. Those are all things people are passionate about, yet it's only when it comes to love that passion is suddenly a crime.”

"Not just love," said Tinsley, finished his circling of the statue. "Specifically the carnal side."

"Carnal?" Ricky looked at him with a frown. "What does that mean?"

"The- The sexual side of love. The erotic aspects." Tinsley gestured at the statue again. "If these two were fully clothed, it wouldn't have caused half the hubbub it did."

Ricky shook his head in wonder. "It's very different being here with someone else. I usually just come alone and think about whether or not I find a particular thing pretty. I don't really think about what stories might be behind them. And I _never_ would have guessed this one was adultery."

Tinsley looked the statue over slow. "It seems too romantic, doesn't it."

"Maybe it was romantic. People have affairs for a whole litany of reasons." Ricky looked at the side of Tinsley's face he could see, watching the pensive expression on his face as he studied the statue. "You said that they fell in love, and that was why she cheated. Love can be a reason for adultery, can't it?"

"I don't know."

Ricky stepped around him, taking the path out into the botanic garden, hands in his coat pockets and gravel crunching underfoot. He said, as casually as he could muster: "Do you love your wife?"

Tinsley followed a few feet behind, watching the back of the other man's head. "I..." He swallowed. "No. I suppose I don't. Not anymore."

"And if you found someone who you fell in love with - really, truly fell in love with - would you be able to stay with her?"

"I wouldn't have a choice. I married her."

Ricky specified. "Would you be able to stay faithful to her?" He stopped abruptly, turning on his heel to face Tinsley. "In _Quatrefoil_ , both Phillip and Tim cheat on their partners. How did you feel when you read that?"

Tinsley stared at him, dumbfounded. "It- It was fiction."

"But did it not make you feel anything?" Ricky was searching his eyes, deeply, deeply. "Did you think what they did was right, or just? That they grabbed a chance at happiness?"

"Tim's wife was divorcing him. And Phillip's fiancée was-"

"It doesn't matter what they were," interrupted Ricky. "Phillip didn't know that Tim was getting divorced, and Tim didn't know that Phillip's fiancée had bad intentions. All they knew was that they loved each other, and they had to be together."

Tinsley didn't think much of the burning passion in Ricky's words; the man spoke about many things with such vigor, after all. "Before they decided to flee together, they knew about all of that."

"But when they slept together, they didn't."

"It- It's complicated. I've never thought about it much." Tinsley's eyes narrowed curiously. "You've clearly thought about it."

Ricky straightened back up, dropping his gaze. "It's crossed my mind. Many things do."

"Have you ever slept with someone else's partner?"

Ricky looked at him from under his brows. "No."

"Have you had the opportunity to?"

"Yes."

"So you don't approve of it yourself."

"I- I don't approve of it when it comes to only a physical need," said Ricky, with more self-righteousness than was owed to the sentence. "But I wouldn't know if I'd approve or not if I loved the person."

Tinsley still had that softly curious look on his face, his head inclined a tad. "Have you ever loved anyone?"

Ricky's heart jumped into his throat. He fumbled for words, like a child through a box of toys. "I- It's difficult to- Once I-"

"It's okay. You don't have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable."

Ricky closed his eyes, letting out the breath from his lungs. "...No. No, I've never loved anyone before. Not romantically. I love my family, and I love a hobby or two, but never... never..." He opened his eyes again, and they were big and dark and serious. "Never when there were _carnal_ aspects."

Tinsley smiled. "Great usage." He stepped around Ricky, and it was his turn to lead, instead of follow. His deep voice drifted pleasantly through the air. "And have you ever needed someone carnally?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever been with someone carnally?"

"Yes. Quite... Quite often."

Tinsley looked back over his shoulder, his brows knitted in a strangely irritated look. "Oh. You hide it well."

"I know." Ricky watched the taller man tilt his head aside to stop a branch from swatting him. "Have- Have you?"

A pause, silent but for the crunching of their footsteps. They were toward the back of the garden now, and it wasn't the most kempt. Usually the sight of plants left without aid would have Ricky all in a tizzy, but he was too focused on the subject at hand to notice. He waited for Tinsley to respond, and eventually he did.

"Not for a while."

"Not with your wife?"

"No. Not with anyone."

Ricky chewed on his lip, wondering whether he should cross the line or not. But the line was there, right in front of him, and the grass looked so much greener on the other side. "I've heard some things."

Tinsley stopped at this, half-turning to stare at him. "About me?"

"Yes." He swallowed hard. "I've heard that you're, for lack of a better word, celibate."

"Celibate?" Tinsley still hadn't blinked. "Where did you hear that?"

"Just around."

Tinsley had gone pink, his shoulders tense as the stone wall they were now beside. "I'm not celibate. But I'm not- I'm not a very virile man, I suppose. I can't do what other men seem fond of doing; you know, picking up women in bars and sleeping with them for a night and never seeing them again. I can't do that."

"Does it make you feel guilty?"

"No. No, I just..." He turned to face him directly, taking a deep breath. He was about to say something he had never spoken out loud before. "I can't get... aroused. If I'm with a stranger. I need some sort of emotional connection, or at least some sort of prior relationship. But don't get me wrong, I can be very attracted to a person, but it's just that _physically_ , I can't... do anything. Unless I know them. Even a little."

Ricky looked entirely enraptured, his lips parted, his eyes stuck to Tinsley's face. "So it's a person's personality that appeals to you?"

Tinsley was silent for a moment, but he was thinking. His hands were raised in front of his stomach, one wrapped around the other wrist, tight. "I don't know. I don't know what makes someone sexually attractive to me. It could be the smallest thing; the way they carry themselves, or a particular gesture, or- or even the manner in which they eat. The smallest, tiniest things can just make me... want someone."

"Carnally?"

Tinsley didn't smile this time. "Yes. Carnally."

Ricky was almost afraid to make another sound; the air was brittle, and too hard of a knock would shatter it into shards and slice them to pieces. "What made you fall in love with your wife?"

Tinsley lowered his gaze before letting his eyes close completely. "I can't remember. But whatever it was that made me love her, she doesn't have it anymore. She lost it a long time ago."

"So why don't you leave her?" Ricky clenched his jaw, trying to keep back the torrent of words on his tongue. "I- I hate knowing you're with her. It's not right."

"Not right?"

"It isn't. Knowing someone like you is with someone like her is- It makes me wonder if there's any sense in this world at all."

Tinsley's breath was short, shaky; he struggled to hide it, keeping his eyes on Ricky's so that the other man couldn't look away and see how his chest was jumping. "Maybe there isn't any sense."

"There could be," said Ricky firmly. "But it's not obvious. It's not there for the taking. We have to _make_ sense of it all. Make it for ourselves. There's very few truths in this world, but that's one I believe in whole-heartedly."

Tinsley's voice was hoarse. "But how? How do we make sense of things? How do _you_ do it?"

"I don't know," came the quiet reply. "I'm still in the process. But I think I'm getting there."

"It's easier for you. You're... You're _you."_

A puzzled look. "Which means?"

"Which means..." Tinsley's eyes drifted up the the grey sky, not in exasperation, but for inspiration. Only when he had decided on his words did he let his gaze drop back to Ricky. "I'm not like you. I'm not bright and brilliant and bold. I'm not the type of person who goes out and does things. I'm the type of person who stays inside, and who has things happen _to_ them, whether or not it's wanted."

"But do you like being like that?"

"It's safer."

"That's not an answer."

"Well, who doesn't like being safe!"

"But when was the last time you did something that made you feel alive?" Ricky moved towards him as he spoke, and his eyes were sparkling, as if they held their own light deep in the black irises, like stars in the night sky. Tinsley wished he could, even for a second, see the world through those eyes. He imagined everything would be ten shades brighter, the colours more intense, and even on cloudy days the sun would shine. "When was the last time you did something that changed everything?"

 _I met you. I met you and, slowly but surely, everything is changing._ But he didn't want to say this out loud and he didn't have to, as Ricky had plowed on ahead with his philosophies.

"You frustrate me, Tinsley. Seeing you hide away all the time, sitting with your head in a book or walking around with your head in the clouds. You rarely - _rarely -_ ever seem to be in the moment. And I think you miss a lot of opportunities because of that. And I think a lot of people miss the opportunity to know you because of that." Ricky searched his eyes, and still he found the slight doubt in them, the doubt that was always there whenever the tiniest bit of praise was sent his way. Ricky wanted to grab this doubt and crush it under his heel. "A lot of people would be lucky to know you. _I'm_ lucky to know you. You're one of those few people who are simply enjoyable to be around. And I want you to know that."

Tinsley nodded, seeming dumbstruck. He didn't respond. After a moment of this silence Ricky flushed red, the determination wavering. He pushed a hand through his hair, his gaze drifting aside.

"Sorry, I- I let my emotions take hold of me too much. I didn't notice. It's embarrassing."

"No. I like it." Tinsley smiled, a small one, before placing a hand on the shorter man's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "Thank you, Ricky."

Ricky returned the smile. "It's okay."

A quiet moment passed, with nothing but the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of cars. Then Tinsley raised his eyebrows.

"Lunch?"

"Yes. Yes, that sounds good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely 110% need to credit Abel Korzeniowksi's song Table for Two as the inspiration for the museum scene
> 
> https://youtu.be/Vmw_KUF_oaM
> 
> godddd this piece is so BEAUTIFUL and ROMANTIC


	13. The Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo... chapter 13....... an unlucky number ......

“Mamma, my shoe is loose.”

“You’ll be fine.” Isabella closed the car door after them, turning toward the library. “It’s only a little while, and we’re late anyway. We’ll be going home soon.”

“But it’s going to fall off,” insisted Mia, trailing behind her mother, sister, and brother. “What if it gets lost?”

“We’ll get you another pair.” Isabella stuck out a distracted hand toward her daughter, leading the way to the crowd that was milling around the doorway to the library. “Oh, look. We missed the ribbon cutting!”

Isabella made her way through the crowd, guiding her children like a mother duck with her ducklings, and she watched out for her brother, mother, or grandmother. She saw Banjo by the refreshments, as per usual. His police chief hat was easy to spot. She saw Holly cutting through the bustling crowd toward the far door, as stiff-backed and sharp-stepping as always. Tinsley stood a head taller than the majority of the crowd, and he was listening intently to someone she couldn’t quite see, but all of a sudden she knew where her brother was. She led the children over, and there he was, talking animatedly about something or other. His face lit up when he saw her, and again when he saw the kids.

“Where in the world were you guys, hm?” Ricky crouched down, accepting three simultaneous hugs from his nieces and nephew. “Late, as always.”

“It wasn’t our fault!”

“Mamma couldn’t find her necklace.”

Ricky rolled his eyes, letting them land on Izzy. “It’s always something or other.”

Izzy chose to ignore the jibe. “Where’s ma? I didn’t see her with Holly.”

“I think I saw her with the Mayor a few minutes ago.” Ricky straightened back up, brows raised. “Why?”

Izzy threw a sidelong look at Tinsley before saying: “I’m going to talk in Italian to my brother now. It’s just private.”

Tinsley nodded, looking into his glass. “Sure. Of course.”

_ “What is it?”  _ Ricky searched her face with narrowed eyes, wary.  _ “Ma’s been a bit elusive. Do you think there’s a reason?” _

_ “She said something strange to me in church the other day. About Nonnina. I think she has something planned. Something unpleasant.” _

_ “Well, do you want to stop her?”  _ He laughed, and Tinsley automatically smiled beside him, despite having no idea what was being discussed.  _ “I don’t. If she wants to get rid of the old bag, then I say let her.” _

_ “Ricky, she’s family,”  _ said Izzy sternly.  _ “If something happens to her, what will people think of us? Dad only died a few weeks ago, and now we lose another family member?” _

Ricky’s face grew serious.  _ “You’re right. I didn’t think of it that way.” _

Tinsley let his gaze drift over the crowd, many of the faces which he remembered from the fundraiser the Goldsworths had held not too long ago. He was beginning to become what some might consider a bit  _ too  _ immersed in this lifestyle; not too long ago he had trudging from one grey day to the next, and now he was hanging around the rich and powerful like he even belonged. Yet he felt as if he belonged, strangely enough. Or perhaps he only felt like he belonged because he was beside Ricky - who was still talking quite seriously with his sister. Tinsley glanced up as he saw Holly slip out a side door, and he frowned. She wasn’t usually one for sneaking and slinking about. He wondered what she was up to.

What she was up to was the plan her and Lucy had devised. It was a win-win situation; Holly would arrest and jail a prominent criminal, and Lucy would have her despised mother-in-law out of her life for good. The plan was as simple as they could make it, as it was less likely to go awry that way. Holly would receive her invitation to the opening, then go to a pre-decided side door, and let in a large amount of cops, who would whisk Nonnina away and Lucy would smooth it all over with the crowd afterward. Yet when Holly opened the door and stepped out into the chilly afternoon air, there were no cops. Not a single car. She waited for a moment or two, checking her watch, impatiently. She paced back and forth, impatiently. She folded her arms and tapped her foot, impatiently. After ten minutes or so - which meant ten minutes behind schedule - the sound of car engines echoed through the air. They were loud, too loud, especially as Holly had been quite strict that they keep the element of surprise. She heard the engines growl to sudden halts around the front of the building, which was  _ not  _ the pre-arranged meeting place. Holly stormed around the corner, and stopped still. The cars, though numerous, weren’t police cars. They were black and smooth and shiny. The men getting out of the cars weren’t cops. They wore black and had black balaclavas over their faces. They were already heading toward the library, guns drawn. 

Holly didn’t waste time in running back in through the side door, shoving through the people, grabbing hold of Lucy’s arm as soon as she got close enough. The irritation swiftly dropped from Lucy’s face at the sight of the expression on Holly’s.

“What?” she asked, turning away from the few people she had been entertaining. “What is it?”

“Gunmen,” said Holly, her voice tight.

“Gunmen? I don’t-”

There were a few distant shots, echoing, and when the echo had dwindled, the silence in the room replaced it. Fear spread across the crowd like oil waiting for a flame. Ricky was staring at the same doors everyone else was, but he didn’t stay silent for long. He spun, grabbing hold of Fran, shoving her toward Isabella, and his voice was the only sound in the room.

“Take her! Take her and the kids! Mayor, cover my mom!”

He’d barely finished the sentence when the terrified cries flooded the room, and people swelled toward the opposite doors. The gunshots were louder now, and Ricky knew, he knew there wasn’t enough guards on the doors to prevent an attack. They’d be in the room any second now. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t see anyone but his family, but Izzy was screaming at him across the chaos.

“The girls! I don’t have the girls!”

He skidded to a halt and turned without hesitating, fighting back through the throng of people, his eyes wild with fright. He thanked God that Izzy had dressed them in candy-coloured dresses; he spotted them almost instantly, being buffeted around by the crowd, crying for Izzy. He shoved people aside, scooping them up, one in each arm, and the doors burst open. The gunfire was loud and indiscriminate, and Ricky ran out the nearest door, and he kept running until the gunshots were deceivingly far away, and even then he didn’t stop. He went through another door, not knowing where it led, but at least it put one more wall between them and their attackers.

“Where’s mamma? I want to go to mamma!”

“No, no no no, come with me.” Ricky hurried down the corridor, as quietly as he could, hearing the terrified sniffles of the twins. “Shh, shh, it’s alright, I’ll get us out, and everything will be fine.”

“But where’s mamma?”

“She’s with your brother,” whispered Ricky, holding them tight as he stopped to gaze at the rows and rows of dark-wood book-filled shelves. He felt his heart drop at the maze before them. He debated turning back, but swiftly decided against it. “You- You have to promise me something, okay? Promise me that you’ll stay quiet, as quiet as you can. It’s very important. It’s the most important thing in the world right now, okay?”

He waited until they had both tearfully mumbled  _ okay  _ before setting off. He stepped carefully, quietly, his arms quickly beginning to tire with the weight of the girls, but he’d rather collapse than risk putting them down. He poked his head around the side of the next set of shelves, glancing up and down the gap. It seemed empty. It seemed.

The echoing sound of a door closing made him freeze, clutching the twins close. He could feel their little hands clinging to his collar, and the fright in their eyes had him frightened, and then angry. Unbearably angry. He struggled to stifle the red-hot fury in his chest, concentrating on getting them to safety. It could be an ally who had slipped into the library, but an ally would call out, and an ally wouldn’t immediately start slinking around in silence. Ricky’s heart thundered in his chest; he could feel it in his throat. The main hall was vast, wider than he had thought, resembling more of a university library than anything else. He passed by a fireplace, in which a fire was crackling away, waiting for the first visitors to sit in the comfortable chairs around it and chat over coffees and cigarettes.

A squeak of a shoe against wood came from nearby. Ricky spun to face it, backing away between two rows of shelves. There were gaps between the tops of books and the shelves immediately above them, but not enough to see a person’s face. Only enough to see movement, sly and slow. Ricky let out a trembling breath, continuing to back away, his fear reflected in the faces of Mia and Marta, whose eyes were large enough to see the whites all around the black irises. The sound of another door closing reverberated, and Ricky took the chance to steal a few quick footsteps to the end of the row of shelves and flatten himself against the dark wood. He rested his head back against it, eyes closed, the cold sweat breaking out all over him before a hot flush followed. His arms ached with the weight of the twins, but he couldn’t put them down, he would never forgive himself if one of them got hurt. He loved them as if they were his own children. They were the closest thing to his own children that he would ever have.

He readjusted his grip on them, leaning aside to peer back down the aisle. He saw a foot disappear behind the end of the shelves, quiet. He straightened back up instantly, biting hard on his lip, his breaths painful in their hoarseness. If only he didn’t have the twins. If he didn’t, whoever was stalking them would be dead already. Ricky took off in the opposite direction to the threat, and paused when he heard the  _ thump  _ of something hitting the floor behind them. It wasn’t harsh, but in this silence, it was the loudest sound he had ever heard. Mia whispered: “My shoe.”

Ricky didn’t turn to check. He hurried on, but the footsteps of their assailant were louder now, less shy. They must have found the shoe. They knew now that Ricky had children with him, that he was carrying a weakness in his arms. The footsteps were running; he could hear them, getting closer, swiftly. Ricky could feel strands of his hair sticking to his face with sweat, from exertion, from fear. His arms burned, his neck and shoulders ached from the weight of the twins hanging onto him. Marta squeaked a sentence.

“ _ Zio,  _ there’s a man!”

The man in question spoke. “Stop moving!”

Ricky stopped, closing his eyes, letting out a trembling breath. He turned slowly, clinging onto the twins, holding them close against him. When he forced himself to open his eyes, he wasn’t too surprised to find Luca Calvi at the end of a pistol. Ricky swallowed hard, unblinking as he stared at him.

“Put the kids down.”

Ricky lowered himself to one knee, placing Mia and Marta on their feet. He didn’t straighten back up. He kept a hand on the back of each of their heads, letting them hide their faces in his shoulders. “Luca, don’t…” His voice was shaking; he paused and tried again. “Don’t do this.”

Luca’s voice was cold, cutting. “You took away my family line. I’m going to take away yours.” The gun was steady in his hand. “Even though they’re not even yours. You can’t have children because you’re a goddamn faggot, aren’t you?”

Ricky gritted his teeth, hard enough to hurt. “If you hurt them, I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’m not the only one who knows you’re a queer,” said Luca in a snarl. “Everyone knows. No one wants you owning this  _ plaza.  _ They want you gone. I’ll be praised for this.”

Ricky spat at him. “ _ Vai a quel paese.” _

“Your whole family will be dead before this day is done. I want you to know that before I kill you.”

Four gunshots cracked the air, rapid, unhesitant. Ricky recoiled instantly, turning his body away, hiding the screaming twins as best he could, tucking them away in his arms. Their screaming stopped, but he didn’t dare raise his head. Tears of fright leaked from his eyes, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to look at the girls, either of them, he didn’t want to see the blood, the pain. He’d rather keep his eyes shut until the bullets took his life too.

He heard the sound of something heavy hitting the wood floor, and the sharper noise of metal falling. He raised his head, cupping the twins’ faces, and they were alive, their eyes wide and frightened, as tearful as his. He turned his head to see Luca slumped on the floor, groaning. Down the row of shelves, with a still-smoking gun in hand, stood Tinsley. He held the gun in both hands, still poised to shoot. He advanced down the aisle with quick short steps, kicking Luca’s gun aside, sending it sliding under the shelves and into the next aisle. His face was pale, stiff, but he held the gun steady. He looked at Ricky, seemingly speechless. Ricky, on the other hand, wasn’t. His eyes were still watery, but they were shining with an animal rage, dropping back to Luca. 

Through jumping breaths he said: “Take the twins.”

“Ricky, you can’t-”

“TAKE THEM! NOW!”

For a moment, it seemed as if Tinsley was about to argue, but he thought better of it. He picked up the twins, throwing a quick look back over his shoulder as he disappeared around the shelves. Ricky waited until the footsteps had gone quiet. Then he sat across Luca’s chest, rolling his sleeves around his elbows before wrapping his hands around the man’s throat and squeezing. He ignored the choked pleas, looking him in his eye the whole way through, watching the man’s face turn red then blue, watching the blood vessels burst, and even when the man was dead Ricky didn’t let go. He eventually sat back, his breaths still heavy through his parted mouth. The anger was painfully hot in his chest, and he stumbled to his feet, gripping onto the shelves for balance before tearing an armful of books from them in his fury. Only when he felt that he wasn’t going to explode into flames did he leave the library, snatching up Luca’s gun on the way and tucking it into the back of his belt. On his way to the front of the building two ambulance men passed by with an empty stretcher between them. He let them pass, despite the fact there was no one to resuscitate now. He stepped out of the doors, the sound of screaming sirens ringing in his head. The area had been efficiently cordoned off, the police in the middle of rolling out tape. Ricky turned his head at the cries of  _ zio! _

He strode over to Tinsley, taking the twins from him. “Where is my family.”

“They’re safe,” said Tinsley, watching his face closely. “They’re being escorted home as we speak. They’re probably there already.”

He lifted his gaze over Ricky’s head at the sight of the stretcher being carried out, in which was the limp body of Luca. Tinsley stared at it in silence as it was carried past. He looked back down at Ricky, his face stiff, angry. It was the first time Ricky had seen such an expression on the man’s face, and it was like seeing a usually peaceful forest consumed by wildfire. Ricky replied in a short manner.

“He died from the gunshot wounds.”

“I didn’t shoot to kill.”

“He died,” repeated Ricky slowly, carefully. “From the gunshot wounds.”

“From  _ my  _ gun, was it?” said Tinsley sharply. “Do you know what it means for me if I get the blame? Do you?”

Ricky went quiet, but he didn’t avert his defiant gaze. Not until Marta pulled at his shirt collar to alert him to the fact that she wanted to go home. He closed his eyes, inclining his head a tad. Then he looked back up at Tinsley.

“Come to my mom’s. Now. We can talk it over there.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned on his heel, carrying the twins over to the car. The Mayor stood at the door, and soldats were as numerous around them as the cops were. He got into the back with the girls and the Mayor got into the front and he drove them the long way, the way they never usually went, just in case they were being followed, or there was a nasty surprise waiting for them along their usual route. Just like that, everything had changed.

Lucy’s house was surrounded by soldats, their guns unabashedly drawn. They stopped the car as it got to the gates, stepping back when they saw who it was. The relief washed over Ricky when he saw his mother, sister and nephew hurry out of the house at the sight of the car. He got out, letting Mia and Marta run to their mother, and Izzy wept as she held them. Nonnina was already having her bags packed; she was leaving for her hideout within the next hour. Lucy drew Ricky into a tight embrace, and she didn’t let go for a long time. The crackle of car wheels on gravel made them step apart, and Tinsley got out of the car, Holly getting out on the other side. They closed their doors in unison before coming towards them, equally serious looks on their faces. The group headed inside, none of them speaking a word. Everything had gone awry for all of them. Isabella took the children upstairs to her room, and Holly and Lucy went one way, and Ricky and Tinsley went the other. They didn’t talk. They didn’t even look at each other. Ricky led the way into the small parlour and closed the door behind them. He kept his hand on it, his back to Tinsley. After a few minutes he said: “Drink?”

“No.”

Ricky crossed to the cabinet and poured himself one, throwing it back before filling it up again and turning to face Tinsley. The detective stood in the middle of the room, still, his arms folded across his chest and a stern look on his usually relaxed face. Ricky let out a sharp breath through his teeth.

“I-”

“You killed him,” said Tinsley. “So don’t try lying to me. I know he wasn’t dead  _ or  _ dying. I saw him before I left you.”

Ricky paced for a few minutes, one hand occupied with his drink and the other gripping his hip. Then he turned to look at Tinsley. “Yes. I killed him. Of course I did. He threatened my family. He threatened  _ me. _ ”

“I won’t take the blame for it.”

“I know. I know, I don’t expect you to. I wasn’t thinking straight.” Ricky sat down in the nearest chair, a wingback one beside the window. He let his head fall forward, his hand propping it in place, pressed to his forehead. “I had to kill him. He had to die.”

“And you get to decide that, do you?”

“Yes,” came the fierce reply, Ricky raising his head to glare at him. “I’m the Don. I decide who lives and who dies.”

Tinsley didn’t look away. “This isn’t the first time you’ve killed someone.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“How many people have you murdered?”

“The same number as the amount of people who’ve threatened my family’s safety. I have to. If we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us. That’s how this works.”

“I thought your family didn’t partake in that as much as the others do.”

“We don’t. This is the first time anything like this has happened to us.” His voice dropped to a mumble. “And it’s because of me.”

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. “Why is it because of you?”

Ricky took a mouthful of his drink, letting it rest on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. “Because there’s some aspects of me that people don’t like.” He got to his feet, crossing the space between them, his face dark. “I need you to do something for me. Something important.”

Tinsley remained wary, his hands fidgeting by his sides. “It depends on what it is.”

“I- I value your friendship. I do. A considerable amount more than I expected I would.” Ricky took a breath, letting it out slowly. “I need you to stay out of my way.”

Tinsley searched his eyes, trying to find some glimpse of the man he had come to know. “Stay out of your way while you do what, exactly.”

“The people who attacked us today,” he said. “I’m going to find them, and I’m going to show them what it means to cross me.”

“You’re going to kill them.”

“I’m going to hurt them. And I’m going to use everything in my power to do so.” His eyes were burning with renewed rage. “He was going to kill the twins. Two fucking children. I did him a mercy in killing him as quickly as I did. But I won’t show such mercy to anyone else.” He whipped away, striding across the room to the phone and snatching it up. It was answered almost instantly. “Mayor, it’s me. Gather-”

His eyes widened in shock as the phone was taken from his hand and shoved back onto the hook. He looked back over his shoulder at Tinsley, and although he felt like he should teach the man a lesson, the anger just wasn’t mustering itself within him. It never did. Not with Tinsley.

“Ricky, listen to me.” The detective placed a hand on Ricky’s shoulder, turning him away from the phone. “You should think about this. Think before you act. From what I’ve gathered so far, you act impulsively. That makes you predictable, which in turn makes you vulnerable. You need to act  _ un _ predictably, or else you might be putting you and your family in even more danger than you already are.”

The indecision was rife in Ricky’s eyes, but after a few minutes he dropped his gaze, swallowing. “You’re right. You’re right, I was being foolish. God.” 

He buried his face in his hands, and didn’t move. Then his shoulders shook with the beginnings of a quiet sob. Tinsley went against his own advice, and acted without thinking. He drew him into his arms, letting him bury his face in his chest and cry. Ricky’s hands clutched at his back, bunching up his shirt, and the feeling of Tinsley’s gentle fingers brushing through his hair brought a level of comfort he’d never experienced before. After a few minutes Ricky stepped back, wiping at his eyes with the insides of his wrists, sniffling. He accepted the handkerchief Tinsley fetched with a tearfully grateful smile.

“Thank you.”

“It’s okay.” Tinsley kept a hand on Ricky's arm, soft. "But promise me you won't act on anything. Not for another twenty-four hours at least."

Ricky looked up at him from under his brows, and his voice was hesitant. "And what if I still want to do what I want to do now?"

"Then…" He tried a weak smile. "Then I suppose we will have had the shortest friendship in history."

"I don't want that."

"I don't want that either."

Ricky nodded, biting on his lip. "And I never thanked you for what you did. You saved our lives. I owe you a debt. A great one.” Ricky took hold of Tinsley’s hand in both of his, tight. “Anything you want, and it’s yours. It’s the least I can do.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Anything. Money, land, anything at all.”

“Anything at all?”

“Yes.”

Tinsley smiled, wry. “Then I want you to not get yourself killed.”

Ricky didn’t return the smile. “That’s the only thing I can’t guarantee.”

“Don’t-”

The door opened, and Holly poked her head in, saying a quick: "Tinsley, let's head back..."

Her eyes were on their hands, where Ricky was still holding Tinsley’s tight. They immediately let go, retracting their hands, staring at her. Tinsley cleared his throat and said: “Sure. Of course. I’m coming now.”

He turned to Ricky, pausing in closing the door over behind him. “Twenty-four hours. Promise me.”

Ricky let out his breath, shoulders relaxing a tad. “I promise.”

The drive back into the city was silent. Tinsley didn’t know why. He and Holly got along well, and they’d had silences before, but never so weighted. Perhaps it was the day that was in it. It had been a stressful hour. Tinsley closed his eyes. All that had happened in only an hour. He could hardly believe it.

Holly said: “Those were some… interesting stains on your shirt.”

Tinsley looked at her sidelong. “Sorry?”

“There were some damp patches on the front of your shirt,” said Holly, light. “Interesting.”

“He- Ricky was crying.”

“So you comforted him.”

“Yes.” His face was growing warm. “I couldn’t just stand there and not do anything. It’s not in my nature.”

They drove on for a few minutes more. Then Holly switched off the radio, plunging them into silence. Tinsley swallowed hard, keeping his gaze out the window.

“I know we can’t help but converse with that family,” said Holly, her grey eyes fixed on the road ahead. “But you need to remember that they’re not our friends.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Holly spared him a glance, but his head was turned just enough that his face wasn’t open for reading. “You spend a lot of time with Ricky. A worrying amount of time.”

“As you do with Lucy.”

“Me and Lucy meet in secrecy,” said Holly. “We don’t dine out together every other day. Do you understand the difference?”

“Yes.”

“And I would  _ never _ offer her a shoulder to cry on,” she said, sternly. “You have to be more careful than you’re being. I know you’re not dim. But whatever has you feeling confident enough to essentially swan around with Ricky Goldsworth on your arm-”

“He’s not on my arm,” came the sharp reply, Tinsley turning his head to glare at her. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“It- It implies something.” He pulled at his shirt collar, the heat rising through him. “It’s late. I don’t want to talk about any of this. In fact, drop me off here. There’s a station around the corner. I’ll get the train home.”

“Very well.” She pulled over, watching him get out. “Goodnight, Tinsley.”

He closed the door.


	14. Fond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want 2 dedicate this chapter to @the-nervous-artist's cat Peach because she is round and beautiful and her head is too small for her body

He had been sitting with Fran almost all night, in his office, a list of scrawled instructions between them, the lamp beside them the only light. A soldat came in throughout the night to empty the ashtray, or refresh the coffee. The phone rang on-and-off, frequently the Mayor, who was in his element as he followed suspects from place to place, in the dark, tracking who talked to who, and when and where they talked. Ricky struggled not to act, not to order him to get rid of anyone who seemed odd. Clean them out, smoke them out, street by street. But he had promised Tinsley he wouldn't act, so he didn't. At about three in the morning he ended up opening the drinks cabinet and added some rum to both his and Fran's coffees. They lit fresh cigarettes, but he didn't sit back down. He paced back and forth, antsy, his shoulders visibly tense. Fran watched his frantic movements.

"What are you waiting for?"

He didn't stop pacing. "What do you mean?"

"You'd usually be on a rampage by now, Ricky. It's been-" She checked her watch, brows shooting up. "-a whopping ten hours! I've never seen you this patient."

"I'm not patient," he muttered, taking a pull on his cigarette before exhaling the smoke with a sharp sigh. "I just have to wait for twenty-four hours before I make a decision about what to do. So that's another fourteen _fucking_ hours. Christ."

"Why do you have to wait? That's not like you at all."

"I promised someone I would wait. Think it through." He plonked himself back down in his seat, and it rolled a little on its wheels. "But there's nothing to think about. Some band of _traditori_ attacked my family. There's no other option. They have to die, and it will be by my hand if I get the chance."

"Then why wait?"

"...I promised I'd wait."

She was watching him closely. She was going to play along, bring up the subject slowly, but as she had just said, why wait? "You promised Tinsley."

For the first time in hours, Ricky went still. "...Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"And why did he even ask such a thing?"

"...I don't know."

Her reply was gentle. "Yes you do."

He didn't respond. He just brought his coffee to his mouth, and took a sip. Fran continued on in his absence.

"You have to be careful, Ricky. Whatever feelings you've ended up with, you need to remember what your priorities are."

"Priorities can change," he mumbled.

"If your priorities change, then maybe they were never your priorities in the first place."

"Maybe they weren't!" He stared at her in earnest, wondering exactly what was going on in his mind that he was saying all this. "Maybe none of this is a priority to me!"

Her eyes were wide in shock. "What?"

"I was born into this! I was born with this weight already on my shoulders and I've been so enthralled in it since the start that I thought maybe nothing else could exist. And maybe... maybe there's better priorities out there." Ricky suddenly slumped back, his chin resting on his chest. "I don't know. I'm just tired."

"Let's hope you're just tired." She shook her head. "You're really trying to convince me that your family isn't a priority to you?"

"No! No, my family is my utmost priority. But... But everything that has come with it... maybe isn't." He left his cigarette in the ashtray, and it fizzled away, crumbling down to ash. "People have threatened me before. Threatened our business. But I never saw red the way I saw it yesterday. It made me think that the only aspect of my family I value is _them._ Nothing else. Not the money, or the land, or the power, or anything."

Fran was silent for a while. "I think you should wait until morning before deciding whether or not you're serious about this."

"Would it matter? At the end of the day, I don't have a choice."

"I've known you for a while now, Ricky. You always have a choice."

"Maybe not this time."

"That's because you're not thinking," she said, leaning forward to get her coffee from the desk. "You're just waiting around. I'm pretty sure Tinsley didn't want you to wait for twenty-four hours just so you'd go ahead and do what you were going to anyway."

Ricky nodded, slowly. "You're right. I should think. Think about what I could do differently."

"Then go to bed," said Fran softly, extending a hand to rest it on his. "You're exhausted. The circles under your eyes are ten times darker than they usually are."

"Funny."

But he knew it was true. He was stressed, and overtired, and his eyes itched with lack of rest. So upon confirmation from Fran that she'd wake him up if anything happened, he dragged himself up to his room and flopped down onto his bed. He lay like so for a while, flat on his front, his face in the covers, and anyone who might have chanced upon him might as well have assumed him dead.

While he lay down, he didn't sleep. For once, he thought everything through, he boiled everything down to its bare essentials. When he had done this, he rolled onto his back and sat bolt upright. He had devised a plan. One that, for once, might make things easier. But he needed approval. He needed an opinion, and not Fran's, not the Mayor's. Certainly not his mother or sister's, as it concerned them in the first place. He needed to tell Tinsley, and he wouldn't be able to sleep until he had done so. 

It was risky to leave, but he had to. So he put on his black coat, and wrapped a scarf around his neck and lower face, and clamped a hat on over his head, until he wasn’t much more than a pair of worried eyes over a scarf. He checked his watch; it was late, almost half eleven. He’d have to hurry.

He picked up his gloves on the way, slipping the black leather on over his hands. He went downstairs, and then down again, into the cellar, where he let himself into the Prohibition tunnel. He locked the door after him and tucked the key away in his trouser pocket before heading down the dark and dusty path. Not long ago this had been active at all hours with full barrels of beer and casks of wine being smuggled in, and empty ones being smuggled out, and oil lamps flickering on the walls every few feet. Now it was just a lone figure barely distinguishable from the dark around him.

He wasn’t the only person out at such a time; it was a Saturday, after all. He kept to the darker side of the street, and circumvented the lights from the lamps on the path. No one appeared to be following him, not according to his frequent checks and double-checks over his shoulder. The train was just arriving when he went through the barrier, and he got on, staying low, head ducked aside to keep the brim of the hat between his face and any prying eyes. He got off at the right stop, and then had a bit of a wander back and forth as he tried to remember which direction Tinsley’s house was in. Perhaps the walk would do him good, anyway. Wear him out even a little. It didn’t. He paced up the street, hands tucked in his coat pockets, and only stopped when he saw a particular dying plant out on the porch. He remembered the poor thing. And he remembered the wife. Ricky stood at the end of the small path and chewed on his lip for a minute or two. He’d come this far. Might as well get it over with.

The door was answered by Tinsley’s wife, wrapped in a deceivingly bright, pink dressing gown. She had a cigarette in one hand, but even the smell of the smoke wasn't enough to cover up the smell of alcohol coming from her. Her suspicious eyes looked at Ricky like they’d be feuding for centuries. Ricky took his hat off, pulling the scarf down to reveal the rest of his face.

“Is Tinsley in?”

She took a pull on her cigarette, taking her time answering. “Who’s asking?”

Ricky wasn’t too surprised that she didn’t remember that day at the cafe. He was relieved, really. “Just tell him Ricky’s at the door and needs to talk to him.”

“About what?”

Ricky’s brows drew together, threatening a scowl. “Nothing of your concern.”

“Oh, I just remembered. He’s not in.”

She went to close the door, and Ricky pressed a hand to it, easily holding it open. He called in: “Tinsley! It’s Ricky!”

There was a pause. Then the door at the far end of the hall creaked open, and Tinsley poked his head out, timid as a dormouse. His hair was ruffled as if he'd just woken up, and face was pale enough to dupe Death. “...Ricky. It’s- It’s half five.”

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Can it wait?”

“No.”

Tinsley came down the hall slowly, hugging himself, and his eyes didn’t even flicker toward his wife. Her eyes didn’t leave him, however. Not once. Ricky observed them, and an uncomfortable feeling hatched in his chest at how Tinsley stuck to the wall, as far away from her as he could manage in the space they were in.

“Well?” The wife inclined her head, her face stiff with anger. “What’s this?”

“Nothing,” said Tinsley quickly, and his face was swiftly growing red. “It’s just- It’s just something for work. It’s nothing. It’s probably not even important.”

“Something for work in the middle of the night? Is that what they call it these days?”

Tinsley threw a look at her, his eyes wide, but he didn’t respond, frozen. Ricky spoke up, louder than he’d intended, but the anger had to get out somehow.

“I’d like to talk to him in private.”

“This is my h-”

_“Now.”_

She blanched at the force in his voice, the iciness in his eyes. After a moment’s silence she turned away and went upstairs, not looking back. Tinsley flinched as a door upstairs slammed hard enough to rattle the house. Then he quickly stepped outside, closing the door over behind him. He was in his pajamas, with a thick dressing gown and slippers on. He readjusted his glasses in front of his sleepy eyes, but he didn't look at Ricky directly, not for a minute or two. His voice was quiet.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

"Why not?"

"You just... shouldn't have."

Ricky was still staring at him in shock, his mouth parted. “Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you okay... here?”

“What are you talking about?"

"I've never seen you act like that."

"I’m fine. Now what is it?”

For a few seconds, it seemed as if Ricky was going to persist with his questions. Then he lowered his gaze, thinking it better to stay on track this once. “I’ve decided what I need to do.”

Tinsley closed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t- Don’t say you’re still going to do what you were going to do.” He sounded low, already defeated. “I don’t want to have to stop talking to you. I really don’t. And if that’s what you’re going to say, then I really can’t handle it right now.”

Ricky swallowed at the deflated attitude of the other man. "I can't act patiently. I can't. Not while I know my family's in danger. So I… I want to ask something of you.”

Tinsley opened his eyes, studying his face. “What?”

Ricky picked at the tip of the finger of one glove, agitated, restless. He looked like he’d been agitated and restless all night. His eyes had dark circles under them. Tinsley waited.

“You know that this is all becoming very… very dangerous.” Ricky chewed on his lip for a few seconds, still fiddling with his glove. “And you know what my family means to me.”

Tinsley nodded, but other than that he didn’t respond. He just waited. Hopeful. Ricky closed his eyes.

“I need your help. To protect them.”

Tinsley stared at him. “What do you mean.”

“I mean- I mean I need you to take them and hide them for me.”

“Ricky, I- I can’t do that.”

“You can. I know you can. I know there’s talk of such a programme starting. Protecting witnesses.”

Tinsley blinked rapidly, seemingly stunned. “No. No, not for years yet. I can’t do that.”

“They’re in danger,” said Ricky, his eyes large. “I’m scared that I can’t protect them. If any of them died, if I- if I failed to-”

“Ricky, I’m sorry. But I can’t.” He swallowed. “Not unless they are actual witnesses that need protecting.”

Ricky went still. “So it’s a possibility.”

“As I said, they need to be witnesses. They need to testify under oath and then I can see what I can do.”

“Testify to what.”

Tinsley raised his hands a tad, palms up. “That’s up to you. But they’ll need to give me proper information. Something on one of the families. Something big enough that would give me a reason to have to hide them for their own safety.”

Ricky’s eyes turned wary. “...And if they’re taken away, would I be able to see them?”

Tinsley’s reply was soft. “I don’t know. Most likely not. The program insists on a complete change of identity for all persons.”

“Will I ever be able to see them again?”

“I can’t guarantee anything, Ricky. _I_ might not even be told where they're going. I'm sorry, but I can just offer what little I can.”

Ricky folded his arms, his gaze distant, shell-shocked. “And they’ll be safe?”

“I can’t answer that for definite. I would if I could.” Tinsley placed a hand on the man’s arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Just tell them to come in and testify. You can make something up, if you're uncomfortable with it. And then I’ll take it from there and see what I can do.”

“I- I just-” He went quiet, looking awfully small. “Okay.”

“I know this must have been a difficult decision.”

“Mm.”

“But you’re doing the right thing. This is the safest way. And if it means you won’t be acting impulsively, then...” Another soft squeeze of his arm, comforting. “I’ll help you. All the way. I promise. And because you kept your promise to me, I'll keep mine to you.”

Ricky looked up at this, and there was a surprisingly childlike fear on his face. His voice was hoarse. “Thank you.”

Tinsley pressed his lips together in a small smile. He took his hand from the man’s arm. For a moment they stood in a heavy silence, and the porch lamp wasn’t doing much to lighten the scene. Ricky eventually just nodded, taking a few steps away, stopping at the top step for a minute before retracing his steps.

He looked up at Tinsley with serious eyes. It was a very intense look altogether, Tinsley thought. He kept his own face neutral, but still guarded, still aware of the danger of all of it. Ricky stepped forwards, right into the taller man’s space, before pushing up on his tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. He felt the detective’s shoulder tense under his hand. He kissed him on the other cheek, letting their lips pass within a hair’s breadth of each other on the way. Then he stepped back, seeing the pink tinge to Tinsley’s cheeks which was swiftly growing to a bright red. He kept his hand on the side of the man’s neck, his thumb resting on his warming cheek, giving it a light brush, just friendly, but perhaps not.

“Thank you, Tinsley. I won’t forget this.” 

Tinsley didn’t reply. His heart had jumped into his throat, and he was worried that if he opened his mouth the sound of it racing would fill the street. He watched Ricky stroll away down the path, all the way down, waiting for him to turn, to indicate that something out of the ordinary had just happened. Maybe it hadn’t. Ricky and his family were like that, more open, more lax when it came to touching. And Italians kissed each other on the cheek all the time. But Ricky did turn, at the end of the path, his hand resting on the wooden gate as he looked back over his shoulder at Tinsley standing on the porch. Neither of them moved, just watched each other in silence. Then Ricky continued on, and Tinsley watched him pass in and out of the streetlights until he reached the end of them and vanished into the dark entirely.

He went back into the house, closing the door over. He leaned against it, his forehead pressed to the wood, his eyes closed and his mouth a firm line. His heart was still fluttering in his chest. After a few minutes he straightened back up, turning toward the hall, and his wife was standing at the top of the stairs with her arms folded and her hard gaze unblinking. He stared back for a few long seconds. Then he continued down the hall and into the sitting room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

* * *

Ricky waited until the next morning before he informed his mother and sister of his plan. Then he waited until midday. Then he waited until evening. All through the day it weighed him down, his shoulders slumped due to the pressure of it. It was towards the end of dinner in Lucy's when he knew it couldn't wait any longer. He had barely eaten with the stress of it; it filled him up inside. He swallowed a mouthful of wine before setting the glass back down, keeping his hand around the stem. Into the comfortable quiet he said: “I’ve made a decision.”

Lucy finished putting her fork to her mouth, speaking around the food. “Oh? Do tell.”

He took a deep breath, letting it out, and another, letting it out harder. “...I’m sending you away.”

Izzy and Lucy stared at him, so still they could’ve been a painting. Then Lucy said: _“Scusami?”_

“I’m sending you away,” he repeated, keeping the tremor from his voice. He had to act confident, sure of himself, unyielding to his emotions. “All of you. And the little ones.”

“No.” Izzy put down her napkin, her fist pressing down on it. “No, I knew there was something on your mind. You’re not being left here alone. Absolutely not.”

“I’ll have Fran and I’ll have the Mayor.”

“No,” she persisted, her face hard. “Send the children to Nonnina. I’m not leaving. And I highly doubt ma is going to leave either.”

“I think we should leave,” said Lucy, and although she spoke quietly, the response was a stunned silence, as if she’d screamed the words. “It’s a smart idea. Ricky will be working under less pressure if we’re not under threat.”

Izzy stared at her, as if waiting for her to laugh and reveal she was joking. “You’re not being serious. You can’t be.”

Lucy turned her attention to Ricky, and she seemed unusually calm and collected. “My only question is: how will you go about it?”

"I have help. From a friend." He took another mouthful of his wine, suddenly finding that he couldn't quite look either of them in the eye. "Tinsley said he'd help get you away. Make you untraceable. He swore to me."

"And you trust him to keep to his word?"

"Yes. I do."

Izzy swallowed, her hands resting on the edge of the table. "Where would we be going?"

"I don't know. And I- I might not ever know."

"...What are you talking about?"

"It's part of the system," said Ricky, quiet. "If you're moved away, everything changes. Your names, your histories, and any past relations. Friends and family. It's the only way to make sure it's entirely safe."

Izzy was silent for a long moment, her eyes pleading. She looked at Lucy again. "Mamma, say this is unnecessary. The children can stay with Nonnina and we'll stay here. Where we belong."

Lucy just shook her head, her face entirely neutral. "I believe it's the right thing to do, Isabella. Decisions like this are hard, but your brother is doing the right thing." She looked at Ricky. "When will we be leaving?"

"Mamma, no, I'm not-" Izzy went quiet at the sudden nudge under the table, the pointy of Lucy's shoe against her shin. "...I'm not happy about this."

"When will we be leaving?" persisted Lucy, not looking away from Ricky.

"My plan is tomorrow evening. At the latest."

"Then we had better start packing." Lucy got to her feet, circling the table to give Ricky a pat on the shoulder. "This is very brave of you, _cucciolo._ I'm proud."

Ricky didn't seem too overjoyed. He remained sitting at the table with his wine in one hand and his head in the other as Lucy and Izzy left. It was only when they were upstairs that Izzy whispered: "Why did you kick me?"

"To get you to stop protesting," said Lucy, matter-of-fact. She led the way to her bedroom, pulling open a drawer and starting to rummage through the clothes. "It was upsetting him."

"Are you packing? Really?"

"Yes." Lucy crossed the room to the wardrobe, opening it wide and taking out the empty suitcase at the bottom. "It wouldn't be believable otherwise, would it?"

"Believable?"

Lucy stopped beside her, an eyebrow raised. "You don't really think I'd leave my only son here by himself, do you?"

Izzy's face lit up. "Oh, brilliant! So we're staying."

"No. No, _I'm_ staying." Lucy started dumping clothes into the case, blasé. "You and the children are going away. To safety. And you'll act as if I'm going with you."

"That's entirely unfair! I don't want to leave." Izzy sat down on the side of the bed, but she knew she was already done for. Standing up against Ricky would be one thing, but against Lucy? Might as well just wave a white flag and be done with it. "I hate how quickly you devise your plans. I'm always left in the dust."

"Being in the dust is safer than trying to keep up with the stampede," said Lucy. "Now go home and pack. And do as your told. I have to pop out for a while."

* * *

Tinsley was alone in the office, trying to concentrate on his work. The attack at the library was their priority now, and he found himself working twice as hard as before, just so he could lock the culprits away for good. He still thought of Ricky's face, the way he had been almost folded on the floor, his nieces clinging to him and he to them, the tears welling in his eyes with fear. Tinsley had intended on holding the attacker at gunpoint, but the second he saw the situation at hand, he had pulled the trigger. Not once, not twice, but four times. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought his action through; he had, but it had been a direct route from A to B in his mind. This man was going to hurt Ricky. This man must therefore be stopped. And _he_ hadn't killed him. Ricky had.

It still amazed him, how a man like Ricky could lay hands on someone with deliberately fatal consequences. Ricky had killed, but he had killed to protect. Did that make a difference? Tinsley rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, sitting back in his chair. It was a complex situation. Ricky was both a killer and a person who made him feel safe. Comfortable. It just didn't add up. He just couldn't believe the same hands that were so warm and sure, so soft to touch, were capable of strangling a man to death. Tinsley got to his feet; he needed to walk, in circles, circles, mimicking his thoughts. The door was knocked upon, and although it was late, he was grateful for the distraction. He crossed the office with quick steps and opened the door and was, quite frankly, shocked.

She was partially disguised. There was a headscarf around her dark hair, with just the fringe still visible, ruffled. There were gold loop earrings in her ears. She wore a black shirt with the high collar buttoned up, and a long dark skirt. She was, regardless of what she wore, _dans le vent._ Lucy smiled at him, despite the fact she hadn't said a single sentence to him in his life. So far. It seemed this was about to change.

“Ah, detective. You are here late." She was already in the office, familiar with the space. "That’s good.”

Tinsley watched as she placed a cigarette in a long black holder and lit it with a stainless steel lighter. She snapped the lighter shut when she was done. “Are you looking for Holly?"

"No. I'm here for you."

"And what can I help you with, Mrs Goldsworth?”

"I know what you and my son are up to."

Tinsley stared at her in silence for a long minute. He was unsure of what exactly she was referring to, so he just went with a relatively safe: "...Oh."

"Yes." She stood beside his desk, brows raised expectantly. "I would like to sit, first of all."

"Oh, sorry." Tinsley jumped to action, picking up a chair as he passed Darla's desk and placing it down beside her. Then he went around to his own chair, and sat down himself. "So- So what do you think me and your son are up to?"

"I'm not leaving," she said coolly, settling in on the chair. "I'm not leaving my son. Never. And although I'm thankful for your help in smuggling me away, I'm here to refuse."

Tinsley raised his brows, trying to hide his relief at her suspicions. At least they weren't what his mind had immediately jumped to. "...Ricky didn't tell me this."

"Because Ricky doesn't know. And he won't know. _Capisci?"_ She gave him a long, weighted look before continuing on. "However, my daughter and my grandchildren will accept the offer of help. It would be safer for them to be away from here until everything has been smoothed over."

"I'm going to have to discuss this with Holly."

"No. I'll _inform_ her of my decision when the time is right." Lucy tapped the ash off her cigarette, sitting back and crossing her legs. "This is going to be a very delicate period of time for my family and its legacy. If you endanger us in any way, I'll have to respond appropriately."

"Endanger you?"

"Yes. I'm aware that you've grown quite close to my son. It's an unheard of friendship, I'll admit, but so far it does seem to be doing more good than harm." She looked him over as she took a pull on her cigarette, analyzing his every move. "You seem to be quite a placating influence on him. I appreciate that. He doesn't tend to listen to people once he's got an idea in his head. Unfortunately, he's quite like his late father in that way. He won't listen to me. He won't listen to his sister. Yet he listens to you."

Tinsley swallowed, and underneath the table his hands were gripping each other tight. "He's, uh, he's a force of nature."

"Yes, he is. The problems will only arise if you start using his trust against him."

"I wouldn't," said Tinsley with sudden vehemence. "I couldn't, really."

She watched him closely. "You value your friendship with him."

"Yes. Of course."

"That's good to hear. He's fond of you. Very fond." She hesitated, and it seemed she was about to say something more, something that may have just been a few words, but would have carried a tremendous amount of weight. She decided against it, taking the cigarette from the holder and stubbing it out before standing up. "When the time comes, and if Ricky asks, I left with Isabella and the grandchildren. Is that clear?"

Tinsley got to his feet, following her over to the door. "I don't know if I'd be comfortable lying to him."

"You know what would be even more uncomfortable?" she said, turning at the door to look up at him. "Sinking to the bottom of a lake with concrete tied to your legs."

With that she left, leaving behind only the faint smell of her perfume and the echo of her heels against the floor.


	15. Hiding

It was early on a Sunday morning when he had to say goodbye, so early that the world was still dark, and everyone was still in their beds. Almost everyone. The Mayor had organized the escort to a prearranged swap-over. Ricky went along with them, even though it would just make it all the more difficult. He knew it would, but he still couldn't just stay at home while his family were taken to be hidden away, perhaps never to be found again. The drive over was quiet, nervous, anxious. When the Mayor had parked the car on the dark street no one opened the doors. Not yet. Ricky remained in the back seat and let the kids crawl onto him and hug him tight, and they asked when they would see him again. He said soon. He felt Izzy's hand squeeze his as he lied.

They got out of the car and into the shadowy street, and soldats began loading their suitcases into a van sitting across the road. There was a car in front of the van, its lights turned off. Ricky went over to it, hearing the window being rolled down as he got closer. He rested a hand on the roof, leaning down to whisper to the driver.

"I can't thank you enough for this, Tinsley. I really can't."

"It's the least I can do." The car door clicked, and Ricky stepped back to let Tinsley step out. "If I ever find out where they're sent, I'll let you know straight away."

Ricky didn't reply for a moment, hidden by the darkness. A small sound, similar to a hiccup, came from his direction. His voice was tearful. "I don't want to have to say goodbye to them. Not so soon. Not so suddenly."

"I know. You're being extremely brave, Ricky. I don't know if I'd be able to do what you're doing."

"But you did, didn't you?"

"My parents were taken from me against my will. I never would have been able to send them away, even if it was for their own good." Tinsley watched the watery glimmer of Ricky's eyes in the dark, focusing on them. "It's hard to do the right thing sometimes, but you're doing it anyway."

He didn't get a response. Not until he felt Ricky's hands on his forearm, holding it as he leaned forward to rest his head against his shoulder. Tinsley stood still, letting himself be used for balance as he listened to Ricky trying to steady his jumping breaths. His hands slid down Tinsley's forearm, gripping his wrist, bunching Tinsley's shirt sleeve up between his fingers. Tinsley placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling how he was shaking with the tears. He wanted to draw him in and hug him again, envelop him in the love he deserved, but he couldn't. Not with so many people around. Not even if there was only one person around. That was simply the way it was. So he made do with a hand on Ricky's shoulder, just to let him know that he cared.

They swiftly stepped apart as footsteps grew close, and Ricky wiped his hands across his eyes in an attempt to dry them. He was grateful for the dark in that moment.

"Where should I sit?" said Lucy, standing by the car.

"In the front, I think," said Tinsley.

She nodded, opening the door and placing her bag on the seat. Then she came back around and hugged Ricky, and he hugged her back, and she spoke some words in Italian to him, and even though Tinsley didn't understand the words, he knew what she was saying. The words carried the same tone, the same softness in every language. _I love you. I love you so much._

Isabella let the children say another goodbye to Ricky before helping them into Tinsley's car. Then she said her own goodbyes, embracing her brother for what could possibly be the last time. Tinsley felt a bit out of place, standing a few feet away, until Izzy came over to him and kissed him on both cheeks. She whispered in his ear: "Take care of him for us."

Tinsley just nodded, wondering why she would feel she would have to whisper such a sentence. He followed her to the car, closing the door after her, before going back around to the driver's seat. Ricky was waiting for him, hands in his coat pockets and shoulders slumped. Tinsley didn't know what to say, or what to do. He just gave Ricky's shoulder another squeeze, feeling altogether useless. Then he sat into the driver's seat, closing the door over behind him. After a deep breath he started the engine, and the lights turned on, and he immediately wished he hadn't. Ricky's face was heartbroken, his eyes wet, looking into the back seat at the kids and his sister. He placed a hand on the glass, and Lorenzo reached out to press his hand to the other side. Only when Ricky stepped back did Tinsley drive, and the van behind them followed. It was still a while away until the airport, and after that, it wasn't his business anymore, although he really wished it was.

Lucy's voice was steady. "Take the next left."

Tinsley nodded, doing as was told. He obeyed each direction until he pulled up in front of a few flats; neat, modest, in a nice part of town. Lucy peered up at the third floor, and there were two cats sitting in a window; a fat ginger one with wild hair and a sleek siamese. She nodded.

"This is it."

She got out of the car and ordered her cases to be taken from the van before giving Izzy's hand a squeeze through the window. She waved at the children with a smile; she would see them all again. She knew she would, because it was what she wanted, and she always got what she wanted.

She hauled her two suitcases up the stone steps - quite a feat in heels - before pressing the buzzer beside the name _Horsley._ There was no answer, as there usually isn't at four in the morning, so she buzzed again. And again. And again-

"What?" came a disgruntled voice. "Who in the bloody hell is it?"

She said her name crisp and clear. "Lucy."

A pause that went on for so long it seemed as if there wasn't going to be a response. "What do you want?"

"A favour." She brushed a finger along the top of the buzzer, pulling a face at the grime. "I need somewhere to stay for a little while."

Another unimpressed pause. "Is this some sort of sick joke? I would've assumed you were too old for knick-knacking."

"No, I'm very much serious, dear Horsley. I'll explain the situation - once you let me in."

Just as she had assumed, the curiosity got the better of Holly. She muttered _fine_ before buzzing open the door. Lucy dragged her cases through with a self-satisfied smile, making a beeline for the elevator, as if she had just entered the grandest of hotels. Which soon enough it would be, if Lucy got what she wanted. And as previously stated, Lucy always got what she wanted.

* * *

Tinsley left Ricky alone for the day. He assumed he'd need space, time to come to terms with what he'd had to let go of. He was also afraid that if he talked to Ricky too soon, he was bound to blurt out what he'd promised Ricky's mother he wouldn't; _your mother is still here, and she's staying across the city._ No, he couldn't do that. He knew Lucy was doing it for Ricky's own good. So he waited and waited until the secret wasn't threatening to burst out every time he thought of it, and he called Ricky from his house phone. It rang a few times before it was answered.

"Hello?"

Oh, it wasn't Ricky. It was Francesca. Tinsley didn't mind; at least Ricky hadn't been alone all day. "It's Tinsley."

"Good! That's good." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm about to leave, but he's still pretty upset. Were you planning on coming over?"

"Yes. Yes, I was going to ask him to leave the tunnel door unlocked."

"I'll do it. He's insisting he doesn't want anyone around, but he might change his mind once you're actually here."

He felt himself go red. "Okay. That'd be great. Thanks."

"No problem, detective."

She hung up, and Tinsley was straight out into the chilly late evening air, looping his scarf around his neck as he hurried to his car. He made his way to the little street where the tunnel door was, and parked a bit up from it before walking back down. The door was, as Ricky said it always was, unlocked, although the metal creaked with rust. Inside it was dreadfully dark. He hadn't brought a light, and after a few steps in he realized he was going to have one hell of a headache by the time he reached the other side. His back ached with staying hunched, and every time he forgot, and began straightening up, his head would come into contact with some low wooden bar. At this rate he'd send the entire thing collapsing on top of him. He cursed loudly as his head was jerked back upon impact with another bar, and decided he'd make do with crawling.

As Fran had promised, the door into the cellar was open. Tinsley shrugged off his coat and scarf, using the shelves as a makeshift coat rack before locating the wooden stairs into the hall. From there he searched, finding Ricky's office door closed. He let out a quiet breath, running a hand back through his hair, neatening himself up a bit before going up to the door and knocking lightly.

Ricky’s voice was mumbled. “Not now.”

Tinsley bit down on his lip, resting his hands against the door. He cleared his throat. “It’s me.”

A pause. A long pause. A worryingly long pause. Tinsley rested his forehead against the door, letting out a low sigh. It obviously didn’t mean a lot to the other man that he was here. He mentally cursed himself. What had he even been thinking? He was being foolish. Ridiculous. Whimsical, like a child. He let his hands drop from the door as he heard the handle moved, and Ricky opened it, standing on the other side with his gaze lowered and a drink in his hand. He lingered for a second, as if about to speak. Then he just shook his head at himself, letting go of the door and moving back to his desk. He stood there with his back to Tinsley, one hand still cradling his drink, the other resting lightly on the desk. Tinsley stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against it for a moment, one hand pressed over the other against the wood. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Ricky hadn’t even spared a glance at him yet. Eventually, the other man spoke.

“What is it.”

Tinsley didn’t really know how to react to the tone; it was hostile, yet genuinely curious. “...What do you mean?”

“Why are you here?” Ricky threw a sidelong look over his shoulder, disdainful. “You knocked and I let you in. What for.”

Tinsley’s hands curled into fists, still pressed against the door. “I- I don’t know. I just thought…”

“Don’t do that.” Ricky half-turned to glare at him with his black eyes, big and bold. “I hate when you do that. When you just- you just stop your sentence ten words too early. Just spit it out.”

Tinsley raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Ricky narrowed his eyes at him. “What is wrong with you? How can you be so smart but so goddamn dim at the same time?”

Tinsley scowled at him. “I just- Nevermind. Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

He turned around to grab hold of the door handle, stopping at the borderline squeak of a sentence.

“Wait!” 

Tinsley looked over his shoulder at him, an eyebrow arched. Ricky had one hand around the back of his neck, rubbing at it. He eventually let the hand flop back to his side, almost as if in defeat.

“...Do you want to stay for a drink.”

Tinsley watched him for a few seconds, watched the blush spread across his face. “Yes.”

He went to the nearest chair and sat down. Ricky made him a drink, just a plain whiskey. He handed it to him, and Tinsley made a conscious effort not to let their hands touch. He didn’t know why. Maybe it would just give off the wrong impression. _What_ impression? That their hands touched? Tinsley rubbed at his tired eyes, looking up blearily when Ricky cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry. I should really say thank you.”

Tinsley took a taste of his drink, attempting to appear casual. “It’s okay.”

“No, no, really. You’ve done me two favours, two favours that I can’t even guess a reason for. You just did them because they were the right thing to do.” Ricky didn’t sit across the desk from him. He sat in the chair beside him, so that they were angled towards each other. “I owe you a lot, detective. What you’ve done for my family is…” He waved a vague hand. “I can’t even begin to imagine how to repay you.”

“Really, it’s fine. I did it more for my own conscience than anything else.”

Ricky looked a bit taken aback at this. Then he took a sip of his drink. “I see. Your own conscience. Yes, that would make sense. What was I thinking.”

Tinsley watched him get up and pace once around his desk. “What _were_ you thinking?”

“Something stupid.” He gave the desk a sharp tap with his knuckles, as if demanding an end to the line of conversation. It worked. “You’re a very complicated man, you know. You saved my family’s life twice, so I assume you’re a good person. But then you turn around and say that really it was just so you don’t feel guilty. So is that empathy, or narcissism?”

Tinsley opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He shrugged. “It- It was partly empathy, of course. But I also couldn’t imagine living with myself if I let children get murdered. But it was also… I just…”

After a minute’s silence, Ricky broke. “What! What was it also! Why can’t you just finish your damn thoughts and not drive me up the wall with your pensive little _hmming_ and _hawing_ and just- What is in there!” He tapped his own head. “What are you thinking?”

Tinsley blinked. “Don’t shout at me.”

“Then tell me! Tell me wh-”

“It was partly for you, I guess!” Tinsley waved his free hand, fingers lightly grasping at air. “I guess I just- I just felt a bit sorry for you.”

Ricky’s eyes brightened, and not in a friendly way. “You felt _sorry_ for me?!”

“No, no, I didn’t-”

“You pitied me, did you?”

Tinsley got to his feet too, a helpless look on his face. “Look, maybe I should just go. I didn't know you were feeling quite so sensitive."

“ _Sensitive?!_ ”

“Oh for God’s sake.” Tinsley placed his drink down on the desk with a sharp sigh, leaning on it for a minute, his other hand on his hip. “You know, I came here just to make sure you were alright. I know that you must feel distressed. Alone. I don’t know. And I thought you opened the door because you wanted my company. I guess you just wanted someone to scream at. So thanks.” He waved a hand back over his shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”

Ricky held his drink in both hands, eyes wide at the thought of having to stay the night alone in a house that had been so full. “Wait. Wait, Tinsley. Hold on.”

He caught him out in the hallway, their echoing footsteps both halting as Ricky took hold of him by the arm. Tinsley looked down at him, his lips pressed in an impatient line. The shorter man swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry. I’m- I’m a bit on edge.” Ricky didn’t let go of his arm. He closed his eyes. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

Tinsley’s brows drew together. “Dinner?”

“Yes. Dinner. I’ll make it.”

 _“You’ll_ make dinner?”

“Yes, I'll make dinner. My mom was teaching me how to cook from the second I could walk.”

Tinsley spared a smile at this, amused. “Sure. Sure, that sounds nice.”

“Good. Good.” He chewed on his lip for a moment, lingering where he was. “You know, this will be my first Sunday dinner without my family. Sunday dinners are very important to us. My mom would make the most delicious food, and I won’t be as good, but it’s just… I don’t want to spend it alone, I suppose.”

Tinsley was still smiling, although more gently now. He gave the shorter man a soft pat on the shoulder, letting his hand linger for a few seconds. “I understand. Anyway, it’s not like I have anywhere to be at half eight on a Sunday night.”

Ricky didn’t look him in the eye. “Not even home to your wife?”

Tinsley’s smile wavered before falling completely. “No. Not even home to my wife.”

“Not to sound too cruel, but I’m glad.”

“That makes two of us.”

Tinsley followed him back down the hall into the kitchen, and Ricky switched on the lights. He went right to the window over the sink and pushed it open and plucked a few tomatoes from the box on the sill. Tinsley raised his eyebrows at him.

“You grow your own food?”

Ricky raised his eyebrows right back. “You don’t?”

“...No?”

“So what do you cook with?”

“Whatever’s in the fridge, I guess.”

Ricky pulled a face at this, taking out a chopping board and placing the tomatoes down on it. “You Americans baffle me. It's really not that hard to grow your own vegetables, and it's much fresher than the ones you can buy in the supermarket.”

Tinsley watched him go outside, into the dark. It took him a moment before he realized Ricky was waving at him to follow. So he followed. He went out into the darkness with him, and the night air was sweet and heavy. Ricky crouched down at the side of the paved path, reaching a hand out towards the short plants beside him. 

“How many herbs have you tried in your life, Tinsley?”

“Not a lot, I have to admit.”

“Come down here.” He waited until the detective had done so. “This is basilico. Have you ever tried basilico?”

“No.”

“It’s very sweet and peppery. And it grows flowers, just little ones, white and purple. So it looks good in the garden and tastes good in a meal.”

“You just pluck the whole thing and-”

“No! No, you animal.” He reached over and took a gentle hold of Tinsley’s hand, guiding it forwards. “Feel that? The stem is hairy. Wouldn’t feel very good to eat that.”

Tinsley didn’t reply. His hand felt weak in the other man’s grip.

“And this over here is origano.” There was a quiet plucking sound. “Taste that.”

“The leaf?”

“Yes. Just put it on your tongue.”

There was a pause, then a sudden sound of surprise. “Oh, it’s- it’s quite spicy.”

“It’s delicious.” He straightened up, and Tinsley followed. “This tall one is rosmarino. You can eat the stem of that, but not the woody, scaly bit. And it grows the most darling little flowers, all white and blue and pink. I think they’re in bloom right now, but we can’t see in the dark.” He went quiet all of a sudden. “My mom taught me all that and more. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.”

Tinsley’s voice was soft. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” He strode away. “Wait there.”

So Tinsley waited in the dark, and tried in vain to cool down. He saw a candle approach, and Ricky’s eyes sparkled behind the flame. It was set down on the path, near enough to the herbs that they were identifiable, and Ricky started picking away. Tinsley crouched down beside him, observing his face, his hands, how gentle his movements, how tender his gaze. Ricky suddenly looked at him, and Tinsley didn’t look away. The silence went unbroken but for some tactless crickets nearby. Ricky lowered his gaze, and his long lashes cast long shadows below his eyes.

“Can you carry the candle?”

Tinsley nodded. “Yes.”

They moved back towards the French doors that led from the patio into the kitchen. Tinsley placed the candle down on the table. He left it burning. He watched as Ricky rolled up his sleeves and tucked them in around his elbows before grabbing a pot and setting it on the stove. He filled it with water. He took some homemade pasta Lucy had made only the night before and slid it into the water before placing the lid over it. He set the herbs into little groups along the side of the chopping board, before taking a knife and starting at the tomatoes, chopping away until Tinsley’s voice interrupted him.

“Can I do anything to help?”

Ricky looked over his shoulder at where he lingered by the table. “You can get the wine from the cellar. And two glasses.”

Tinsley went and did just that, and the entire time he was almost dumbstruck with disbelief. This was happening. Ricky was about to have dinner with him. And drink wine. And he had shown him his herb garden, and touched his hand, and stared into his eyes like two movie stars during the prelude to a kiss. Tinsley stopped at the top of the stairs, bottle of wine in one hand and the two glasses held by their stems in the other. He was being ridiculous. It was just a meal. Ricky was Italian, for God’s sake. They’d invite the whole world and their dog to dinner. But still, Tinsley couldn’t help but feel jittery. 

He went back into the kitchen, and poured two glasses of rich, red, fruity wine. The smell in the room was mouthwatering. Tinsley looked over Ricky’s shoulder at the sauce, a thick red with the plump tomatoes still visible, and it smelled like heaven. He could smell garlic, and that was a food he’d tried before.

“The secret to a sauce,” said Ricky quietly, and just a bit out of the blue. “Is the stirring. You have to keep stirring.”

“Oh?”

“But I have other things to get on with, so I’m going to entrust you with stirring duties.” Ricky stepped aside, lifting the handle of the spoon for Tinsley to take. “Do you think you can withstand the pressure, detective?”

Tinsley feigned wiping sweat from his brow with a panicked exhale. “I’m cracking up already.”

Ricky smiled at this, and it was as bright as ever, and Tinsley found himself unable to look away. He only reacted when Ricky slapped at his arm.

“Stir, man! You have to stir like it’s the only thing keeping you alive!” Ricky caught hold of his wrist, bringing his stirring to a sudden halt. _“Not_ that urgently, you’re splattering it everywhere.”

“You made me panic,” muttered Tinsley, his eyes glued to Ricky’s hand resting on his wrist. “I’m just not cut out for cooking.”

Ricky was also watching his hand, letting his fingers stay curved over the side of the man’s wrist. “Does your wife do it for you?”

Tinsley shook his head. “My wife doesn’t do anything for me.”

“Anything?”

Tinsley realized his breaths were shaking. He couldn’t take his eyes from where Ricky’s hand was still resting, feeling the thumb brush across his skin. “No.”

Ricky lifted his dark eyes to the taller man’s face, the side that he could see. “Then why are you still with her?”

“I don’t know,” whispered Tinsley, too afraid to look anywhere else, in any direction, just in case the other man was looking back. “I just am.”

Ricky seemed about to go further, but then he saw the sauce bubble, and that simply wouldn’t do. He nudged Tinsley out of the way, taking over for a few minutes. The silence was noticeable. Tinsley picked up his drink and downed a mouthful or two before topping it up again. Thankfully, Ricky spoke.

“Can you even grate cheese?”

Tinsley rolled his eyes. “I can grate cheese.”

Cheese grated and only two fingers bleeding later, they were sat down and eating. Ricky sat at the head of the table, and Tinsley sat to his right. The pasta was steaming, and the sauce was generously dolloped on top, a thick, rich red. There was crusty bread too, from the day before. Both were quiet, but only because it turned out they were both quite famished indeed. Tinsley paused for breath.

“This is goddamn ethereal.”

Ricky smiled around his glass of wine. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I can’t believe you can cook like this.” He swallowed his mouthful. “I have to admit, I’m floored, Ricky. You’re a true Renaissance man.”

“Charmer.” Ricky topped up his wine, and topped up Tinsley’s too. “What do you usually have for dinner?”

“I can’t even remember now. Everything else is sawdust.”

Ricky laughed. “A charmer and a liar too.” He went quiet, just watching the other man. “Thank you. For agreeing to stay. Even though I acted the way I did. Like a spoiled brat.”

Tinsley shrugged, finishing his last forkful of pasta. “You weren’t that bad. I’ve seen worse.” 

“I doubt that.”

"I don't see why," said Tinsley, using some of the bread to soak up the leftover sauce. "I was a regular cop before I was a detective. I've seen all sorts of people."

"Oh? And what were the most memorable?"

"I was called to a robbery at a house before and the robber opened the door and pretended he lived there," said Tinsley. "Pity he didn't know his own address, or I might've believed him."

"I can't imagine you as a beat cop. This is by no means an insult, but I don't think people would have been too afraid of you."

"It wasn't about fear for me," he explained, breaking apart some more bread. He was a big man with a big appetite. "I was never involved in a physical fight; I found it easy enough to calm people down. And other times, people just looked at my height and decided against a fisticuff. Lucky for me."

Ricky sipped at his wine. "Had you ever shot someone before the other day?"

"No. It never seemed necessary to me." A soft pause. "Until the other day."

"And did it make you feel bad in any way?"

"Strangely enough, it didn't. I suppose that's how I managed to grasp a tiny bit of understanding as to how you can- how you can harm people." He cleared his throat. "It's because they're harming something you value. It does make you see things from a different perspective. Desperate times, desperate measures."

"I prefer the phrase _'_ _a mali estremi, estremi remidi',"_ said Ricky, quiet. "To extreme evils, extreme remedies. It's more accurate to me."

"I suppose it is."

Ricky watched him. "And the offer still stands, by the way. Anything you want, I'll do whatever's in my power to get it for you. I owe you."

"Thank you, but..." A light shrug. "I don't really want for much. And the things I do want can't be bought."

"And what are the things you do want?"

Tinsley smiled, but it wasn't happy. "I'd rather not dampen the mood."

"That's fine. But-" Ricky swallowed. "But I want you to know that you can talk to me. About whatever's on your mind. I think you're a lot deeper than you pretend to be."

Tinsley laughed. "I might be a bit like the sea in that way; the deeper you go, the stranger and uglier the creatures you might find."

"I don't believe that for a second." He got to his feet. “Care for an espresso?”

“Sure. Sounds lovely.”

He checked his watch; it was almost midnight. He didn’t care. His eyes followed the other man as he set up the moka on the stovetop. Everything was so much more pleasant here. The world was warmer. Tinsley looked down at the table as Ricky looked towards him. Maybe he was being daft. No, he was absolutely being daft. Daft as a bat. He didn’t lift his gaze as the chair across from him squeaked. Ricky’s voice was quiet.

“Do you have any curiosities in life, detective?”

Tinsley looked at him, appearing quite casual indeed, although his hands were holding each other under the table. “Hm?”

“Curiosities.” Ricky sat at an angle to the table, legs crossed, his chin resting in his hand. “Things you’d… like to try. Even once.”

Tinsley’s fingers started fidgeting, his breaths making a sudden jump. “As in- As in a type of food or something?”

“Not what I had in mind, but sure.”

Tinsley swallowed hard. “What did you have in mind?”

Ricky was watching him with odd intensity, the tip of his thumb resting just between his lips. He turned his head aside, his fingers curling into a fist against his mouth. He was pensive. “We’re given so little chances in life. Chances to try and find out what we truly like. What- What makes us happiest. We have to fit into this one box, this one little tiny box…” He put his finger and thumb an inch from each other to show just how little and tiny the box. “...but what can such a thing be but a trap. Four walls and no door.”

Tinsley continued fidgeting under the table, picking at his thumbnail. “Maybe that’s why some people choose the box. It has walls. It- It has protection.”

Ricky raised a dark eyebrow. “Protection from what?”

“From people who might try to hurt them.”

Ricky shook his head, slow. “No. No, the only people who would hurt the people inside the box are those that are in it with them.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what it’s like.” Tinsley threw a look at the back garden and the kitchen, all shiny and modern, with the clean white wooden cabinets and the pots and pans hanging all in a row. “You grew up here. You grew up in comfort. You had all your whims and wishes attended to. I grew up out there, out where no one cares about your average Joe. Out where if you lose your job, or lose your house, you’re done for. You’re gone. It’s over. Out where- where people can just take things from you if they don’t like you, or if they disapprove of something about you. Out where the less you stand out, the safer you are.”

He suddenly went quiet. The moka had started hissing as the coffee dripped down the sides. Ricky continued staring at him in silence for a moment. Tinsley cleared his throat and said: “It’s done.”

Ricky nodded. “So it is.”

He got to his feet and took the moka off the flame, but he didn’t take out two cups. He just picked up the wine and moved back to the table and topped up both their glasses. He put the last few drops into Tinsley’s before placing the empty bottle on the table and sitting back down in his seat. He took a mouthful of his drink, watching Tinsley over the rim of his glass.

"You like to feel safe, don't you."

Tinsley nodded, but he had suddenly closed up, furled, tightly. He had said too much, and it was personal, private. It was the part of himself he preferred to keep hidden from view, that he relied on for running commentary on every detail around him, every change inside him, and he'd always sworn to keep it in the dark, draw the curtains, never let it out. His mouth didn't open. Ricky continued anyway.

"Have you ever heard of the saying 'A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for'?"

Tinsley nodded again, and his gaze hadn't lifted from his glass for the last few minutes. He was closed off, just like that, just like a fort against an army. No, not an army. Ricky wasn't on the offense, he wasn't here to pillage and raid. He was here to liberate, but this fort didn't know what was good for it. So the gates were closed, and the drawbridge was up, and the moat was flooded with icy, murky water. He placed his fingertips lightly on the stem of his glass and turned it once, slowly. Ricky's eyes grew increasingly desperate at the sudden distance between them, a distance much further and much harder than the table.

"I- I don't mean to pressure you," he said, highly aware of the pleading in his own voice. "You don't have to talk about something if you don't want to."

Tinsley turned his glass again, watching the dark red liquid swell inside. "...I think I should go home."

"Oh."

"It's late."

"Sure." Ricky stood up to lead him toward the cellar; he had to let him go quick, or he might never come back. "That's fine."

Tinsley followed, and the heavy silence moved with him, clinging to him like a dying man, bony fingers digging in. Ricky opened the tunnel door, and he looked up at Tinsley with large eyes, and Tinsley didn't look back as he shrugged his coat on and wrapped his scarf around his neck. Ricky swallowed hard, his hands fidgeting.

"Did I say something?"

Tinsley shook his head, shifting his glasses up along his nose with a finger. "No. I'm just... tired."

"Okay." He went quiet, taking a lantern from the shelf and handing it to him. "Goodnight. And thanks for staying."

Tinsley switched on the bulb. "Goodnight."

Ricky watched him go off down the tunnel, until all of a sudden the light vanished around a bend, and Tinsley with it. He closed the door over, leaning against it, feeling like a ten tonne weight. What had he said? What had he done? He didn't believe that he hadn't done anything. Some careless word, some careless action had frightened Tinsley away inside himself. One minute he had been the closest to ranting Ricky had ever seen him, and the next it was as if he never wanted to talk again. Maybe he had touched upon a subject he didn't want to acknowledge yet, that he didn't want to analyze, or think about, let alone discuss it. Or maybe Ricky was being foolish again. Foolish and selfish and stupid. He cleared away the plates and poured the end of Tinsley's wine into his own glass and went outside to feel sorry for himself. He went past his little herb garden, following the path to the pool, where it was darker. He sat down beside it and watched the water lap at the tiles as he sipped his wine and smoked a cigarette. It had not been a good day. He sat where he was until sunrise, just to be sure that there was a chance of a better day coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was inspired by florence and the machine's song 'hiding'!! what a sad bop


	16. Twenty-Four Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Time is tricky. You have whole months, even years, when nothing changes a speck, when you don't go anywhere or do anything or think one thing new. And then you get hit with a day, or an hour, or a half a second where so much happens it's almost like you got born all over again into some brand-new person you for damn sure never expected to meet."_ \- E. R. Frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word queer is used in this chapter in a derogatory sense, and there's also violence at the end and it's quite distressing. just a warning!

It all changed. In just twenty-four hours.

Tinsley dragged himself out of bed, as he did every Monday morning, as everyone did every Monday morning. Except most people's beds weren't a couch. He hadn't slept in the same bed as his wife for a long time, but recently it was different. Worse. He crept around and avoided conversation like the plague. He didn't confront her about her disappearing and her drinking and her spending habits, just in case she retaliated with... with something. It had gotten worse. Much worse.

He didn't dare even think about Ricky when she was in the same room as him. He felt as if he was sneaking around with someone else behind her back, but he wasn't. Not really. Not yet. He shook his head at himself, pausing in stirring his coffee. Not yet? Not ever. He couldn't. He wouldn't. It wasn't right to do that to anyone. It would be painful for all sides. That's what he told himself whenever he thought of Ricky in ways that weren't entirely appropriate. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. He wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by him. He assumed it would be the closest thing to ecstasy on the planet. Even the simple thought of it made his heart palpitate, in a surprisingly pleasant manner. He thought of this simple thought a lot.

And sometimes - sometimes - he thought of Ricky in ways that were downright inappropriate. He thought of what he'd look like without his clothes, without the usual crisp white shirt and neat black trousers. He wondered what his bare skin would feel like under his hands, and the image of him with his dark hair a mess and black strands stuck to his face with sweat never failed to make Tinsley hot under the collar. He wondered what he'd sound like. He thought, he wondered, he mused, at his desk, on the train, late at night when he was trying to sleep. Ricky was in his heart and in his head, and he suffered because of it.

He left his coffee and wandered out to the hall in a daze. He thought he had heard the post. It didn't register with him, not consciously, but he heard it. He picked up the mail and brought it back into the kitchen, and went still. He stared at the stark red official stamp visible through the envelope. IMPORTANT. He tossed all other mail aside and fumbled open the letter and as he read it his heart thundered. Mortgage arrears. Mortgage arrears? How? It was set up to be paid by direct debit, he knew it was. It always had been. He sat down at the table and flattened out the letter and read it again. _Dear Mr Tinsley, you have failed to keep up repayments._ He couldn't get past that sentence. It made no sense.

He went upstairs with the letter, opening the door into his wife's room. He turned on the light, ignoring her cursing, and held up the letter with a sharp "Do you know anything about this?"

He knew from her face she did. He also knew from her face that she didn't care. "Just use your inheritance."

His fists clenched. "I'm not going to use my goddamn parent's money to pay off my mortgage, for Christ's sake! I won't have dirt for a pension now if I end up bleeding myself dry on this damned mortgage! Did you empty the account?"

"It was running low. Turn off the light."

"You blew all our damn money on your stupid, _stupid_ habits!"

"Stop shouting! My head hurts."

"I want a divorce!"

There was a long silence. Tinsley was still breathing heavily, like he'd run a marathon. He repeated the sentence amid his panted breaths.

"I want a divorce." He swallowed hard, his fists still clenched, the letter crumpled in one. "I- I want to divorce you."

She sat upright, her face pale. "You can't. If you do, I'll make sure you lose everything. Including your inheritance." She got out of the bed, a bit unsteady. "I'll tell everyone about you."

"Tell them what about me?!"

"That you're a queer!"

"How the hell could you know that if I don't even know that!" he shouted. He hadn't shouted in so long. He hadn't even been sure if he could anymore. "And don't try telling me that you've 'seen the way' I look at men. That won't hold up in a court."

She stared at him for a moment. "What about Ricky Goldsworth."

"What about him."

"Look at you. You're blushing. Like a fool." She sat back down on the bed, smoothing her flyaway hairs back, seemingly calm now. _"That_ will hold up in a court."

Tinsley let out a sharp breath. "He's my friend."

"He shouldn't be, should he? Because you're a cop, you idiot."

"He's nice. And he's kind."

"And he's pretty as a whore."

"Don't say that."

"I've seen how he looks at you. And it _is_ like a whore, batting his lashes and acting all coy."

Tinsley didn't respond for a moment. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh don't act the fool," she said, disdainful. "You've heard the rumours."

"...What rumours?"

"That Ricky Goldsworth is gay. That he sleeps with men." She stared at him in disbelief at his apparent stupidity. "Why in the world do you think he's not married? Why do you think he doesn't have ten mistresses on the go? Why do you think he's always preened to within an inch of perfection? When was the last time you ever saw a man like that? If ever? Aren't you meant to be a detective?"

Tinsley didn't respond. He didn't know how to. His mouth felt numb. "...I didn't know."

She watched him for a minute, watched the dumbstruck look on his face. "You really didn't know. How could you have possibly not known."

 _Because it seemed too good to be true._ "Because I never thought about it. And it doesn't make any difference anyway."

"You're such a terrible liar. You always were. You'd be useless in a court." She got back into bed, pulling the covers up over her. "Turn off the lights and go away."

He stared at her in silence, although he wasn't processing anything. All he could register was the sudden urgency in his chest, the urgency which made him repeat: "I want a divorce. I don't want to be with you anymore."

"Fine. If you want to risk your reputation and your career and your bank account, then fine. But I'll tell you now, I'm going to walk out of it scot-free and you can live on the streets for all I care."

Tinsley swallowed hard. "It would be better than living with you."

Her head appeared over the covers again, a glare on her face. "What is this, hm? Suddenly you're not afraid to run your mouth." She sat upright, her eyes narrowed. "Ever since you got put on this Goldsworth case you've changed. Why is that, huh? Is a certain someone influencing you? Are you desperate to impress this certain someone?"

"No. No, I only changed when I met you. I wasn't always like this. You changed me into something I don't like, and it's about time I became myself again."

He closed the door, not quite a slam, but loud nonetheless. His heart was skipping in his chest with adrenaline, with the thrill of so many things. He hurriedly got dressed, knotting his tie as he went out the door, and the air was cold but fresh. It was a new day, and perhaps it was the very beginning of a new life. He didn't care that he probably would lose a lot if he went through with divorcing her. He'd lose everything, potentially. But it didn't matter, as long as he was able to keep Ricky. He had become such a bright part of his life that it would all seem so dark without him, unendurable. Tinsley headed for the train station, wrapping his scarf around his neck, and for the first time in a long time, the thoughts in his head made him smile.

* * *

"It has to be the Calvis," said Fran, turning the fork over, back and forth, in her hands. "They're the only ones who had any reason to want to harm you."

"Anyone could want to harm him, if what Luca said was true." The Mayor had ordered a coffee, but he had hardly taken a sip. Bar coffee was never quite as tasty as that from a coffee shop, but he didn't partake in drinking, so it would have to do. "If these rumours about you have spread, if something or somebody has given them any reason to be believed, then any of the families could be attempting to uproot you."

Ricky sat like he had been sitting for the majority of the night, his head ducked, resting on his elbows, his hands linked around the back of his neck. He straightened up with a deep breath, keeping his hands linked behind his neck, his eyes closed. "I don't know. I don't know what's changed. I'm being as careful as I've always been."

"Is there a chance that anyone saw you doing... anything?" said Fran with weight. "With anyone in particular?"

Ricky shook his head, dropping his hands back to the table. "No. No, I haven't- I haven't done anything in a while. The last time was with the waiter from that café."

"And nothing since then?"

"No."

"Not like you."

He gave her a barely-amused look. "Now isn't the time for poking fun."

"I have to agree," said the Mayor with a gentle nod. "This is important. People are easy to kill, but rumours not so much. Reacting too aggressively could give ground to these rumours, but not reacting at all could weaken our position in the town. This has to be done delicately."

Ricky chewed on his lip for a moment. "I wish my mom was here. She'd know what to do."

"But she isn't," said Fran. "It's safer for her not to be here. You know that. You decided it in the first place."

"I know." Ricky stared at his empty glass, his eyes sad. "I'm going to get another drink. I'll be back in a minute or so."

He took his empty glass and crossed the room to the bar. It wasn't busy tonight, but that was good. It was easier for the guards to keep an eye on anyone who may be acting odd, suspicious. Ricky ordered another whiskey and soda, taking his cigarettes from his back pocket and lighting one as he waited. He felt someone at his shoulder, turning his head, expecting Fran, perhaps the Mayor, perhaps a soldat, perhaps anyone but who was there. He stared at her, and she stared back. Ricky blinked. It was Tinsley's wife. He should say hello. He should say something. But he didn't know her name, and he'd rather stay silent than call her Mrs Tinsley. Even the mere thought of the words left a bitter taste on his tongue. He eventually said: "Good evening."

She dumped her bag down on the chair in front of her. "Oh, is it? I wouldn't know."

Ricky's brows drew together into a puzzled frown, and his eyes didn't leave her face even when the bartender put his drink down in front of him. "Oh. I'm... sorry."

"I hope you're damn sorry. It's your fault."

Ricky raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate. She didn't. "...I have to say, I don't have any idea what you're talking about right now."

She tutted. "Did you even do it on purpose? Did you even notice?"

"If you could tell me what you're talking about, I might be able to give you an answer."

She didn't appear to be impressed, her hard eyes narrowing. “Just tell me, are the rumours true?”

Ricky blinked at this, and for a moment he was genuinely confused. “What rumours?”

“Are you gay? Are you a gay man?”

Ricky’s head flooded with panic. He had always thought about what he’d say in such a situation; _no, of course not! What? Where did you hear that?_ Or maybe a simple _‘don’t be daft’._ Instead, he was so caught off-guard he just about managed to mumble: “Huh?”

“You are. I know you are. You’re as bad a liar as Charlie.”

Ricky’s grip tightened on his drink. He hated the way she said his name so casually, so lackadaisically. Everyone else called him Tinsley. Ricky called him Tinsley. How could _she_ have the right to call him by his name in such a personal manner? As if they were anything to each other? Ricky’s panic was swiftly becoming embroiled with jealousy, his jaw clenching, his nose beginning to wrinkle slightly at the audacity of this woman and the words she was still spewing. He swiftly lost his patience, fiercely interrupting her.

“Are you really that insecure about your husband’s loyalty? Are you? Because if you are, you really have no idea who he is.”

“I have no idea who my husband is? I’m his wife.”

“A cheap title.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think a ring on your finger means you suddenly know the person? Is that it?”

She was stunned, unable to fathom a response for a few long seconds. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“You know who I am,” he growled back, eyes narrowing. “Or haven’t you read the papers recently.”

He went back to his drink and cigarette, pointedly positioning his shoulder as to be a barrier between them. He glowered at the shelves behind the bar counter, at the dozens of shiny bottles all in a row, full and empty and half full and half empty. She still hadn’t left. Ricky took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, like cool air into a hot room. Instead it felt like hot air into a furnace. He wanted her to go away. _Away._ He didn't know why she chose tonight of all nights to confront him about such accusations, but he really didn't have time for it. He waited for her to leave, but she didn't appear to want to let go of the situation, like a dog with a bone.

“Did you know he wants to divorce me?”

Ricky’s eyes flickered as he took in this information. Then he turned his head to look at her, his face still frozen. “No.”

“Well, he does. All of a sudden.” She picked up her bag, shrugging it up onto her shoulder. “So I hope you’re prepared to cover his divorce proceedings, because I’m going to bleed him dry. Have a nice evening.”

Ricky stayed sitting as she marched away, but he didn’t stay still for long. He left his drink and cigarette and followed her out the door, up the dark steps to the path, taking them two at a time. She heard him coming, turning her head to glare at him.

“What do you want?”

“How are you going to bleed him dry?” he demanded, unblinking as he watched her face for even the barest glimmer of a lie. Even the softness of the streetlight beside them did nothing to soften the cold hardness in her eyes. “How?”

“Because he’s divorcing me because of _you,”_ she spat back, vehement. “We weren’t happy. We never were. But we were fine living the way we were living. Until you.”

“I- I don’t understand. I don’t-”

“Tell me the truth. Have you fucked him?”

Ricky reared back, as if the question was a punch in the teeth. “What? _What?_ No, I didn’t- I wouldn’t- I’m not gay! I’m not. Neither is Tinsley. I don’t know where you-” He was stuttering, stumbling, eyes wide. “Why are you- Why are you thinking like this?”

“Are you really each as dim as the other? Or are you both pretending to be so ridiculously stupid?”

Ricky would usually lash back at such a sentence, but he couldn’t; he was drowning in this flood of sudden hope, sudden fear. “Does- I didn’t know Tinsley was- was gay.”

“Oh, he tries to say he isn’t. But he’s always tip-toed around the subject. He’s afraid of it, afraid of it like he is everything else.” 

Ricky felt the anger resurface, and it was clear in his voice. “Then leave him be.”

“Leave him be? He owes me the truth. I’m his wife.”

“That doesn’t mean he owes you anything,” said Ricky heatedly. “Marriage isn’t a deal where you owe each other things. You’re meant to be friends.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And that’s what you two are, isn’t it. ‘Friends’. But do you want to know how I know you’re not just friends? Do you want to know how I know Charlie loves you?”

“...Loves me?”

“Because he looks at you the way he _never_ looked at me,” she said, icy. “He looks at you the same way he looks at- at those _stupid_ books of his. It’s sickening. Tell me, do you love him? Do you love him too?”

His lips parted to reply, but he couldn’t. His words were caught in his throat, along with his breath, and his thoughts were in a mad scramble behind his eyes. She had to be lying. Tinsley couldn’t love him, couldn’t have feelings for him in any way. It was simply too good, too sweet to be true, that at long, long last Ricky had a chance at something great, a chance at taking hold of the emotion that was revered as being bigger than anything else in the world, the emotion that was more powerful than any other. He swallowed hard, and knew that he had to say no, that he didn’t love Tinsley, he didn’t love her husband, but the words wouldn’t come out. He couldn’t speak the lie. The truth was too fresh, too new, that if he threatened it with a lie he could tempt a twisted fate upon himself. Tinsley’s wife shook her head in disgust.

“You’re just as useless as he is. Too soft to be a real man. Mushy as rotten fruit.”

Ricky blinked himself back into the scene, his mouth still open, speechless. He gave his head a quick shake to recalibrate himself before spitting a reply to her disdainful words. “You listen to me, _puttana,_ and you listen closely, because I’m only going to say it once; if you do anything to harm Tinsley, then you will be making an enemy of me, _capisci?_ I hold a fondness for your husband, I won’t deny it, just as I hold a fondness for my mother, my sister, my family. And do you want to know what happens to people who threaten their safety?” He watched the doubt flicker across her face, the hint of fear. “Yes, you know already, don’t you? They lie in a wooden box six feet underground. If they were goddamn lucky.” His black eyes were burning, furious, unblinking as they held her gaze. “Now I understand you’re not stupid, seeing as you’ve worked all this out, seeing as you’ve already plotted some retaliation, but you’re clearly not wise if you’ve come to confront me about it. So if I were you, I’d find some wisdom, and I’d take myself and my newfound wisdom somewhere far, far away, before it’s removed from your head, along with your goddamn brains.”

She was leaning away from him by the end, her mouth and eyes equally wide open, and her hands clutching the strap of her bag so tightly they were white-knuckled. Her heels clicked on the pavement as she took a few slow steps backward. Once she had done this, she risked turning her back on him, hurrying off down the street, throwing glances over her shoulder as she went, until she fled around the corner and out of sight. Only then did Ricky straighten back up, eyes closed, letting his shoulders relax, smoothing down his shirt as he took a few calming breaths. He checked his watch, looking down his nose at it. It was only half eleven. He'd head home at midnight. He threw one last glare in the direction Tinsley’s wife had ran, seeing a tall silhouette staring at him from across the street, hands laden with groceries. The woman hurried on, head ducked, and Ricky turned away and went back into the bar. This new information had to be mulled over; for all he knew, Tinsley’s wife was lying to him, was attempting to build some case for divorce. He needed to deliberate, if it could be called a deliberation; for Ricky, it would simply be a conflict of various passions, as his deliberations always were. And for the rest of the night, hope bubbled in his chest, bringing spontaneous smiles to his face.

* * *

Holly took the short flight of stone steps up into the apartment building. She used her key to open the door, locking it behind her. The elevator was broken, so she had no choice but to take the stairs, and with more groceries than usual she found it quite a task. The brown paper bags were filled with foods she liked, and some foods she didn't. Certain cheeses, sauces, puréed vegetables, pastas, she never would eat herself. There was a bottle or two of alcohol as well, which was an unwelcome extra weight in the bags, seeing as she didn't even drink the stuff. She went to her apartment door and gave it two sharp kicks with the toe of her shoe, seeing as her hands weren't free. From the other side came a rapid slap-slap-slap of slippers, and then silence.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

The sound of the bolt sliding back was heard, and the door was opened into the apartment. Lucy, in a luxurious dressing gown and a towel wrapped around her hair, relieved Holly of the bags and took off into the kitchen, dumping them down on the counter top. She began sorting through them, lining up the foods she had requested. She popped open the red wine and poured herself some into a tumbler, seeing as Holly didn't have any wine glasses. It tasted delicious, and Lucy smiled as she swallowed it.

"Oh, delightful."

Holly took off her coat, hanging it up on the hook beside the door. "I saw Ricky."

Lucy paused, turning to look at her. "When?"

"About fifteen minutes ago. He was arguing with a woman on the street."

"A woman?"

"I heard Tinsley mentioned. I think it was his wife."

"...And what were they arguing about?"

"Exactly what we both suspected."

Lucy followed her into the sitting room, and then went past her, to the couch, sitting on the arm. "Oh, no. Oh, no no no. I hope to God it isn't true. What did this woman look like?"

Holly described her, and it was no one Lucy knew. "I heard some worrying things in their exchange. Concerning things."

"Like what?" Lucy held her wine in both hands, but she wasn't drinking it. It was forgotten for now. "What were they talking about?"

"She was saying that Tinsley has feelings for your son," said Holly, softly.

Lucy wished she could react like a mother should; with joy at the fact that a man who Ricky loved also loved him back. But she couldn't. All she felt was fear, for her son's safety, for her family's safety, for the heartbreak that was sure to come. She covered her eyes with her hands, her lips pressed in a line. "Those poor boys."

Holly pushed open a window, leaning on the sill as she lit a cigarette. "Do you think Ricky loves him back?"

"Without a doubt. Ricky doesn't feel in halves. If he dislikes something, he hates it, and if he likes something, he loves it." She went quiet. "He'd even die for it."

"I hope it doesn't come down to that."

"It won't. I won't let it." Lucy rose to her feet, joining Holly at the windowsill, accepting the offer of a cigarette and lighter. The moonlight made the outside world a chiaroscuro of blue and and black, and their faces were lit similarly. Only the glowing tips of their cigarettes lent colour to the scene. "I know you're helping me already, and I'm eternally grateful. But I need you to help me even more."

Holly watched her face, and for once she saw vulnerability instead of haughtiness. "I'm risking a lot as it is, Lucy."

"I know. I know you are, but... Just one favour."

"Yet I have a feeling it won't be the last."

Lucy swallowed. "Get me the Mayor. I didn't want him to know I was still here, but he's the only one who will be able to keep Ricky safe, he's the only one who can give orders to _soldats_ without needing permission."

"What about Francesca Norris? She's your son's _consigliere,_ isn't she?"

"She won't keep a secret from Ricky. And I wouldn't disrespect her by asking her to do so."

Holly eventually nodded, closing her eyes in exasperation at herself as she did so. "Fine. Fine, where does the Mayor live."

"I'll write down his address, and I'll give you a letter to give to him. Just to prove the authenticity. He may not trust you otherwise." She suddenly took hold of Holly's hand, giving it a squeeze. "I won't forget these favours, Holly. I'll repay you someday."

"You could repay me now," said Holly with raised eyebrows. "By paying rent."

Lucy waved a hand, turning away and moving back to the couch. "All in due course."

* * *

Tinsley tossed and turned on the couch, more so than usual. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep all night, and with a weary look at his watch, the time read half three in the morning. He rolled away, burying his face in his pillow, willing himself to fall asleep. He turned back over, staring at the empty room, at the black television across the way. He lay like this for a long while, barely blinking. By the time he checked his watch again, it was pushing half four. The dreadful feeling washed over him instantly. He balled the covers up in his fists, pressing his face to them, and he wanted to scream, to let out his frustration somehow. The feeling was twisted painfully tight in his chest. He turned onto his front and buried his face in the pillow, letting out a long, low groan. He wasn't tired, not in the slightest. His pulse was thrumming. He rolled onto his back, staring at the dark, distant ceiling. He rested a hand across his forehead as he let out a quiet sigh. The longer he stared at the ceiling the blacker it seemed to become, until it was simply a screen for his imagination to be projected onto. He saw Ricky, he saw him how he wanted to see him. Tinsley let his hands close into fists, but he could still feel Ricky, how he wanted to feel him. When he closed his eyes he thought about him, only him. Tinsley bit hard on his lip, resting one hand over the other on his forehead, covering his eyes. He was going crazy. He eventually gave up, sitting upright, burying his face in his hands before pushing his fingers back through his hair, taking two fistfuls of it. He needed to get out. He needed to go for a walk. 

He got dressed in the dark, not bothering with a tie, not bothering with brushing his hair, fumbling his glasses onto his face. He just needed to tire himself out, pace around the block once or twice. The phone caught his eye, and he slowed to a halt, debating it, weighing the possibilities, the outcomes in his head. He crossed to it, letting his hand hover over the smooth shininess in the dark. He picked it up, holding it in both hands, tight enough to threaten breaking it in half. He wanted to ring Ricky, see if he too was awake, if he too was unable to catch a wink of sleep. He fought with the idea behind unblinking eyes. Then he shoved the phone back onto the hook, striding out into the hall, snatching his coat and scarf off the rack before going outside.

The street was quiet, as most streets are at half past three in the morning. His breath fogged the air in thin silver clouds, and he watched them as he walked, until it became too cold and he tucked his mouth and nose in behind his scarf. He wandered along the path, in and out of the streetlights, a tall silhouette, a tall cluster of thoughts. But now, they weren’t just thoughts about Ricky. They were thoughts about himself. He had always had a knack for viewing himself from the outside, for being his own audience. He was rarely aware of what was around him, but he was always aware of himself, of changes in himself, and of when he was ignoring certain changes. Which he had been doing for a while now.

He had always avoided thinking about it. It would just cause trouble, so why put himself through it? Why put anyone else through it with him? He knew what it meant; to be with a man, to fall in love with a man, meant to be isolated from the world. It meant none of the celebration that came with loving a woman; no engagement, no marriage, no anniversaries, no Valentine’s Days. Tinsley was a romantic at heart, he knew he was; he adored these events that were for no reason but love. That was what he had always wanted, but knew he would never truly receive. Until recently.

He now realized that, with the right person, the simple touch of a hand was worth a celebration. The quiet act of sharing a meal was to be worshipped. The mere sensation of a kiss on the cheek was something to be remembered and marked by a sweet anniversary. When Tinsley thought of these things, when he thought of them with Ricky, a feeling he’d never felt bloomed in his chest, and it was blissful but it burned. Had his want for Ricky been merely lustful, perhaps he would have given in to this feeling already. But it wasn’t. He wanted Ricky in every kind of way, and forever. He wanted to be with him. He wanted to live with him and wake up in the same bed as him and come home to him every day. He was in love with him, and it wasn’t a love he could drag himself out of, it wasn’t a pit in the ground. It was the top of a mountain, with the world laid out bright before him and the sun beaming down from above, and he couldn’t fall back down, he couldn’t tumble back into days without Ricky, or he’d drown. So he was being careful. He was making sure not to scare Ricky away, not to overwhelm him. He thought he had revealed too much the night before, but if what his wife said was true, if Ricky _was_ like him, then maybe he had revealed the perfect amount.

He closed his eyes, coming to a standstill. He shouldn’t have left the way he did. He needed to call and apologize. He needed to hear Ricky’s voice, he needed to hear him say _it’s okay, you’re forgiven for acting the way you did._ Yet this thought of apologizing to Ricky didn’t frighten him the way it did when he apologized to others; he wasn’t afraid of a snide comment, or a haughty refusal, or a cruel rebuffal. Ricky wasn't like that. Ricky wasn't spiteful, he didn't revel in getting a one-up over someone else. Ricky understood him, understood what he needed, more than even he himself did. He rushed back to his house, breezing through the door, heading for the phone in the hallway. He froze at her voice.

"Where did you just go."

Ice ran down his spine at her tone. "What?"

"Where did you go." She came out of the sitting room, and she was stumbling a bit, her words slurred. She must have only come in bare minutes ago. "It's the middle of the night and you're sneaking off."

"I went for a walk."

"A walk?" She laughed, a cruel sound. "You think I'd believe that?"

"It's the truth," he said, lingering beside the phone, despite the fact his gut instinct was telling him to leave, to get far away. "I just needed to clear my head."

"I bumped into your loverboy tonight."

Tinsley closed his mouth, swallowing hard, painfully hard. "Oh."

"He threatened my life, you know. He's a little animal."

"He's not- He's not an animal. And he's not my lover." _Not yet._

"He said he'd kill me if I hurt you," she continued, coming closer. "Do you think he's telling the truth?"

"...I don't know." He felt the hall table against his hip as he bumped back against it. He didn't like the way she was moving, he didn't like the words she was saying. "I'm going to bed."

"No you're not. You're leaving my house."

"It's my house. It's under my name."

"Get out."

His heart was pounding in his chest, it was making him feel ill. "No."

She suddenly raised her voice to a scream, causing him to flinch. "GET OUT!"

He shook his head, nervously, his eyes wide, unblinking. "I'm not going to-"

She slapped him. It wasn't a tap; it was open-handed, and with the weight of a punch behind it. He fell against the table and leaned on it as he let the shock numb him entirely. He could taste blood, and he poked a finger into his mouth just to check. Yes, there was blood, bright red on his skin. He stared at her, his eyes wide. He didn't speak. He was, all of a sudden, terrified, and he knew he should have left when she told him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the scene where Tinsley goes for a walk was inspired by the song Mercury by Sleeping At Last, which is also an entire Tinsley song in this fic
> 
> https://youtu.be/pNUR0fOMpCs
> 
> listen and try not to feel :( :( :'( and then :)
> 
> and also worry not, next chapter is a nice one that will make up for this one and is basically an entire chapter of ricky and tinsley being in love !!


	17. Careful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"For several hours we lay there, last ones of our kind_  
>  _Harder days coming, maybe, I don't mind_  
>  _Sounds kind of dumb when I say it, but it's true_  
>  _I would do anything for you_  
>  _Open up the promise of the day_  
>  _Drive the dark things away_  
>  _I will do what you ask me to do_  
>  _Because of how I feel about you."_ \- 'Genesis 30:3', The Mountain Goats

Ricky woke up slowly, his face in the pillow. The phone was ringing, high-pitched, jarring. He maneuvered himself on his elbows, rubbing a hand down his tired face as he answered sleepily.

"Hello?"

There was silence for a moment. Then a quiet: "Ricky?"

"Tinsley? What are you doing?" Ricky turned his clock on the bedside locker to face him. "It's five in the morning!"

The lack of a witty reply had his smile waver. He frowned at the silence. He thought he heard a sniff or two.

"Tinsley? Are you alright?"

It was definitely a sniff, a wet sound. "I, um, I need help."

Ricky propped himself up, a hand pushing into his sheets. He stared at the far wall. "What's happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing, I just… I need a bit of help."

"Yes. Yes, of course." He got out of the bed, keeping the phone to his ear, making sure the cord didn't catch as he started trying to tug his trousers on. "Where are you."

Tinsley's reply was clearly tearful by now. "I'm at home."

"Okay. Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can."

The car bumped up onto the path, and he saw he didn't even need to get out. Tinsley was sitting on his front step, arms folded on his knees, head buried in his elbow. He looked awfully, awfully small. He got to his feet, coming down the driveway, and he was wiping at his face with the ends of his sleeves. Ricky squinted at him as he got closer, but he couldn't quite see what he was wiping away.

"Are you okay?" asked Ricky as the other man sat into the car. The door closed quietly. "What's wrong?"

Tinsley kept his head turned away, but there was something wrong, unmistakably. "I don't want to talk about it. Not right now."

Ricky's eyes fluttered at the cracking voice. "Look at me."

This didn't get a reaction. Tinsley's shoulders just hunched a tad. "Can you just drive."

Ricky's fingers tapped against the steering wheel. He wanted to reach over and turn the man's face to look at him, but he didn't. He raised a hand and turned off the overhead light. The dark set in. "Will I drive to mine?"

"Yes."

Ricky just nodded. He pulled away from Tinsley's house, but he only managed to drive to the end of the street before braking. He turned on the overhead light, taking Tinsley by the shoulder and turning him. His heart dropped to his stomach. There was blood on his face, from his lips, and his eye was darkened, bruised. His collar was dotted with blood, dark against the white. He looked embarrassed, ashamed, everything he shouldn't have felt. Ricky didn't know what to say. He couldn't risk opening his mouth; the words waiting to come out were vicious, furious, they probably weren't even going to be legible. His breaths shook with rage, his eyes tearing up. Without a second's hesitation he released the brakes and spun the wheel, turning the car sharply with a screech of tires.

"No, no, Ricky, don't, don't-"

"I'm going to kill her." Ricky repeated the promise, shouting it. "I'm going to kill her! Goddamn bitch!"

"Ricky please, don't do anything." Tinsley grabbed hold of his arm, struggling to keep him in the car. "Ricky don't! I don't want you to!"

Ricky gritted his teeth, one leg out of the car, set on the concrete. "I- I have to. Look at you. She put her hands on you, her filthy fucking hands, how _dare_ she! I-"

"Ricky, I'm tired. I just want to go to yours." He suddenly leaned forward, resting his forehead on Ricky's shoulder, hands still gripping his arm. "Please. Just- Just bring me away from here."

Ricky took a few sharp breaths, struggling to calm himself. Then he ran a hand through Tinsley's hair, kissing him on the top of his head before murmuring: "Okay."

He drove them in silence, his hands still trembling with anger. He knew it. He had known it right from that night when he saw how Tinsley acted around her. He should've acted, right then and there. But he hadn't acted then, so the least he could do was act now.

When he led Tinsley into the house, he brought him straight up the stairs and down the hall and into his room. It was the coziest of the lot, and it was the only one with a couch comfortable enough that he could spend the night on. Tinsley would have the bed. He closed the door after them, bringing Tinsley further in, a hand on his elbow. The bruising was worse in the light, even though the lamps were on low. Ricky stared at the marks, and felt the anger burn in his stomach again. He sat Tinsley down on the side of the bed, and the man did as was told, still seeming quite shocked, beyond words. Ricky disappeared into the en suite, returning with a little first aid kit, and he sat down on the bed beside Tinsley, a leg tucked underneath him. For a moment he just sat, holding the small white case on his lap.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Tinsley shook his head. "No. Not- Not now."

"That's okay."

He unclipped the case, and out came a small bottle of disinfectant, and a few cotton pads. He gently turned Tinsley's head to look at him, studying the cut on the side of his bottom lip. There was a bit too much blood for a relatively small cut.

"Did the inside of your mouth bleed?"

Tinsley nodded, but not too quickly. He didn't want to give Ricky's fingers any reason to stop touching him. "Yes."

Ricky swallowed, willing himself to remain calm. She must have hit him hard. "Okay. I'll just clean what I can, then."

He pressed a cotton pad over the top of the bottle and turned the bottle upside down, swift, dampening the pad. Then his hand was back on Tinsley's face, holding him still as he lightly dabbed at the cut. Tinsley winced once or twice, but he didn't pull away. Ricky's touch was surprisingly gentle, given the anger still glittering in his eyes. He cleaned away the blood from Tinsley's chin, placing the reddened cotton ball aside when he was done with it. His other hand remained cupping Tinsley's face, and he brushed a thumb across his cheek, softly. Tinsley's eyes were closed, his face unreadable, but Ricky felt him push into his hand, brows drawing together slightly, almost as if in confusion, like a beat dog feeling its first pet. After a long moment Ricky stood up, moving to the jug of water on the bedside locker and pouring a glass. He sat back down beside Tinsley, handing him the glass with a quiet: "Rinse out your mouth."

Tinsley did so, and the water went in clear and came out tinged pink. When Ricky put his hand out, Tinsley gave back the glass of water, and Ricky brought it into the bathroom and poured it down the sink. When he came back out he once again sat beside Tinsley, on the edge of the bed, their legs almost touching. Ricky let his hand reach aside to rest on Tinsley's knee, watching the side of his face as he did so.

"Are you hungry?"

Tinsley nodded, his lowered gaze watching Ricky's hand. "Yes."

"What would you like to eat?"

"I don't mind."

Ricky gave his leg a squeeze, and tried a small smile. "I'll find you something."

He went downstairs to the kitchen, searching the presses, finally deciding on some soft bread and cheese, so as not to agitate the man's mouth. He brought it up on a small side plate, and entered the room quietly, so as not to startle Tinsley, who was still seated on the side of the bed, his head in his hands. Ricky sat beside him, handing him the plate.

"Just eat what you want, and leave what you don't want. It's no problem."

Tinsley looked at him, looked at him for what seemed like an eternity. Ricky's breaths grew shorter and shorter, and he struggled not to let his eyes drop from Tinsley's, not to let them wander down to his mouth. It wasn't the right time. It simply wasn't. He wished his heart would obey his head. Tinsley eventually took the plate off him with a murmured "thanks", but he didn't begin eating. After studying the food ponderously, he lifted his gaze back to Ricky's and said: "Can I spend the night?"

"Of course. Yes. I expected you to."

"Thanks." He looked back at the food. "I don't have any pajamas or anything."

"Stay there." Ricky went over to a chest of drawers, searching around in them before pulling out a white cotton t-shirt. "You can wear this, if you'd like."

Tinsley crossed the room to him, unbuttoning his shirt, and it was only then that he realized his hands were still shaking. He fumbled with the buttons, like he'd never undone one in his life. He could feel himself going red, embarrassed. "Sorry, I just- My hands are shaky. I didn't-"

"It's okay." Ricky held the t-shirt out towards him, and Tinsley took it. "Hold that for a minute."

Ricky took a deep, quiet breath, starting at Tinsley's shirt buttons as casually as he could muster, slipping them open one at a time, and even he struggled to keep his hands still, although for an entirely different reason than Tinsley. He tried to keep his eyes on his own hands, but he couldn't help but see a glimpse or two of skin behind the shirt, and at this proximity he could see Tinsley's chest rise and fall with each breath. When Ricky undid the last button he stopped, unable to look back up at the other man. He just cleared his throat with a small nod before stepping around him, raking a hand through his hair as he moved back towards the bed. He started at his own shirt, which had been hastily done up and half-buttoned anyway.

"I'll sleep on the couch," he said, and his voice sounded strange in the silence. "And if you need anything just wake me. I don't mind."

Tinsley didn't reply for a while. "Okay." He cleared his throat. "And- And thanks. For this."

"It's okay."

They stood for a minute, waiting for the other to speak. This minute turned into two minutes. Ricky rubbed at the back of his neck, swallowing hard. He crossed the room and turned off the lights before he continued getting undressed. For a moment the only sound was the rustling of clothes being removed and changed. He heard the bed squeak as Tinsley got into it, and the sound of the duvet being pulled up. It was a big bed. No one else had ever slept in it before. Ricky went to the couch, which was comfortable enough, with cushions and a throw. A woolly jumper of his was flung over the back, which he could wear if he got particularly cold. He lay down on the couch, facing the room, and closed his eyes. 

For the next hour, he tried very hard to go to sleep. He had never found it more difficult. His mind was abuzz with what he'd seen that night, and worse, what he hadn't seen. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about Tinsley in any sort of pain. It was too upsetting. Tinsley was kind, and he was gentle, and he didn't deserve the life he'd been given. Ricky wanted to give him a better one. It was ridiculous, but he wanted to protect him. Hell, wasn't that what he was trying to do right then? Asleep on a couch in his own room, just in case, what, Tinsley's wife somehow broke in, and he'd have to fend her off? He sat upright, looking at the bed, at the lump under the covers. He got off the couch, moving quietly to the bed, and he stood holding one of the posts, looking down at Tinsley asleep, the sudden love in his heart unendurable. Until the bedcovers moved, and Tinsley drew back the duvet. The silence was a weight between them. Ricky got into the bed beside him, careful, just in case he had gotten it wrong, just in case he was misreading everything. Tinsley didn't protest. Ricky lay down facing him, but he still didn't make a sound. He knew Tinsley was about to speak, and that if he was interrupted, he wouldn't speak again. So he waited. Tinsley's voice was a whisper.

"I'm sorry for leaving the way I did the other night. I- I was frightened. I thought I said too much about myself. I said things to you that I've never said to anyone before."

"That's okay," Ricky whispered back. "I wouldn't tell anyone anything you wouldn't want me to."

"I know. I panicked. I've never met anyone like you before, someone I can just... trust."

"That's good. I want you to trust me. More than anything."

"You're the only person in the world I trust." Tinsley spoke as people do in the dark; with quiet confidence that it might never see day, that it was just for him and Ricky and it was, would always be, the most secret of secrets. "I feel like I can tell you anything."

"You can."

Tinsley didn't speak again for a few long seconds. "You've changed my life a lot, you know. I can't explain it properly. But it's- it's like when you take the same train everyday, and sit on the same side of the train everyday, and then one day you sit on the opposite side, and the world outside is an entirely new one. But it's not. It's the same one you've been seeing the entire time but it's different now. Because- Because you're looking at it a different way. A better way." He went quiet. "I don't know if that makes sense. It probably sounds absolutely daft."

"No. No, I understand."

"You always do. You understand everything I say. Not a lot of people do." Tinsley took a deep breath, and he didn't let it out entirely. "Can I tell you something that probably will never be able to leave this room?"

Ricky's heart fluttered. "Yes."

"...She hit me because of you."

It wasn't an accusation. It was just the clearest explanation he could make at the time.

"Why because of me?" whispered Ricky. But he knew. He knew he knew he knew. But he wanted to be sure.

"Because she's jealous of you."

"Why?"

"...Because I- I-" He took a few seconds to try and calm his breath, to try and still his heart. He could feel his eyes watering with the stress, with the fear that maybe all of this was a mistake, maybe he had read every signal wrong. He fought with himself to get the words out. "You have to promise that you won't think of me different. Promise."

"I promise. I swear on my life. On my family's lives." _Just tell me what I want to tell you._

Tinsley's breaths shook, his heart hammering in his chest. A confession of love shouldn't feel like this; terrified, anxious, desperately. But there was no point in keeping it inside anymore; he'd rather Ricky hear it from his mouth than anyone else's. "...I think I have feelings for you."

There was a silence, the most terrifying silence Tinsley had ever experienced. Until Ricky responded, just as quietly, just as carefully, and just as shakily.

"I have feelings for you too."

Tinsley's emotions spiraled every which way; he felt ecstatic, then fearful, then blissful, then panicked, separately, simultaneously, consecutively, yet despite this, it all felt... nice. "You do?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Tinsley didn't quite know what to do next. He hadn't imagined he would get this far. "For how long?"

"For a while now," whispered Ricky.

"...I didn't know."

"I didn't know either. It was all of a sudden." Ricky searched for his eyes in the dark, searched for the slightest gleam, and when he found it, he focused on it. If tonight was the night to confess all, than he had better partake, or forever hold his silence. "And I... I've never had feelings like this before. For anyone."

"Me neither." Tinsley swallowed hard, his hands bunching up the duvet. "It's- It's frightening. I don't know how to hide them."

"I don't know either. I wish I didn't have to."

Tinsley's voice was quietly desperate; there was so much against them, their jobs, their lifestyles, and every single stranger in the street. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," said Ricky, his hands tucked under his head, one on top of the other. "I like having you in my life. In any way. But in this way... This way could be the only way I might lose you."

"I know."

Ricky spoke around the painful lump in his throat. "So... So I guess it's safest if we do nothing."

"If that's what you want, I'll try." Tinsley watched his face, what he could see of it in the dark, which wasn't much. It was a shadow, and this helped, as it was easier to say things to a shadow. "How long have you known that you like men?"

The reply was thoughtful. "Since I was young. Perhaps twelve or thirteen. I suppose I've always known."

"And you've never been with a woman?"

"Never. I haven't even kissed one." Ricky kept his voice a whisper, out of habit. "How did you end up marrying a woman?"

"Because I like women too. I do. Sometimes." He tucked a hand under his pillow, his other hand resting on top. "My parents knew about me. They knew everything about me. They were the last people who did."

"Mine knew too. My whole family knows."

"Is that why you... you didn't like your dad?"

"Yes. And he didn't like me."

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine."

Ricky pressed his lips in a small smile. "You always speak of your parents so fondly. What were they like?"

It took a while for a reply to come around, and it was tearful. "They were lovely. Really. They were the sweetest people. And I think they would have liked you very much."

Now it was Ricky's turn to attempt to swallow his tears. "Oh?"

"My dad was like me. We looked very alike. But I act more like my mom. We used to say the same things at the same time. And I have my mom's eyes. My dad's were blue. And my dad always used to joke around and say he was sorry for giving me the 'Tinsley family schnoz'. We were all very close. And the day they died I thought I'd never recover." He suddenly went quiet, for a little while. "I haven't spoken about them in a long time."

"I like how you talk about them."

"Why?"

"Because I like listening to people talk about the things they love." Ricky could hear the birds beginning to wake outside, singing sweetly. The darkness was beginning to lessen, and he could just about make out Tinsley's face. "I think they'd be very proud of you."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because they sound like they were lovely people, and despite what you've gone through, you've managed to stay a lovely person. And it's hard to stay kind, especially when the world is so cruel. And by the sound of things, you've had more than your fair share."

Tinsley blinked back his sudden tears, swallowing. His hand drifted from his pillow to Ricky's, stopping once it touched Ricky's hand, which was laying palm-up, lax. Tinsley watched his dreams come true as he pushed his fingers through Ricky's, slow, careful. "But it's okay now."

Ricky let Tinsley take hold of his hand, trying to keep his breaths from jumping. "It is?"

"Yes." Tinsley brought Ricky's hand forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his knuckles, eyes closed. He murmured his words against Ricky's hand, lips brushing it. "Yes. Because I've met you."

Ricky didn't know what to say. His skin was tingling where Tinsley's lips had touched, and the sensation was spreading all the way through him, warming him from the inside out. He had to make sure this wasn't a dream, that it wasn't some cruel trick his mind was playing on him. He placed his free hand around the back of Tinsley's neck, and he guided him in against him, letting the man get as close as he wished, close enough to bury his face in Ricky's shoulder, to wrap his arms around him and hold him just as tightly as he was being held. Ricky didn't make a sound, didn't dare disturb this peace. He brushed his fingers through Tinsley's thick hair, chin resting on top of his head, and he felt a few warm teardrops on his neck, but he didn't mind them. As he had told Tinsley a while ago, it was good to cry, for any reason. For Tinsley, right then, the reason was relief, and he swiftly fell into a deep sleep, and he didn't dream of scenarios that had never happened. He dreamed of what had just happened, his hand in Ricky's, and the feeling of Ricky holding him close.

* * *

Ricky woke first. He had always been an early riser, although he didn’t get out of bed immediately. His limbs were entangled with Tinsley’s, and the man’s wild-haired head was on his chest, and he was snoring quietly. It was an indescribable feeling, some untouched source of bliss. He let himself float in it for a few heavenly minutes. Then he began sliding his way out of the bed, gently unwinding Tinsley’s arms from around him. He tucked the duvet back into place, watching fondly as the sleeping Tinsley burrowed underneath it until he was only visible from the nose-up. Ricky reached out, brushing the man’s wild hair back off his face. And to think he used to consider Tinsley’s hair messy during the day. He now realized that _that_ was neat, and that _this_ was his true bedhead. He loved it. What he didn’t love were the bruises still marking Tinsley’s eye, dark and harsh. Ricky stared at them, his face unreadable, his jaw set. He wouldn’t act. Not yet. He wouldn’t ruin such a morning.

Ricky got up and quietly moved around the room, pulling on some pajama bottoms and his dressing gown before leaving the room and closing the door softly behind him. As he went downstairs he studied his hand as a lady would her new engagement ring; this was the hand Tinsley’s lips had kissed. A thrill went through him just at the memory.

He went into the kitchen, and got out a wooden breakfast tray. He sliced up some of the same bread from the night before, and put it on a plate, and put the plate onto the tray. He went to the fridge and took out a jar of jam, and then to the cupboard and took out a dish of butter, and put them on the tray too, along with a butter knife. Then he readied the moka, placing it on the hob and letting it heat. He poured a glass of orange juice, and put it on the tray. He wasn’t sure why he was doing all this. It simply felt right.

He took a coffee cup and matching saucer from the press and poured the hot coffee into it before topping it up with milk and adding a spoon of sugar. He observed the tray, the brightness of it all. Tinsley would like it. He picked up the tray by its small side handles and headed toward the door, and stopped.

“That for me?” asked Fran with a grin, her coat over her arm as she came through the kitchen door.

Ricky blinked a few times, otherwise a statue. “What- What are you doing here?”

“Huh?” She picked up a slice of bread from the tray, bringing it to her mouth. “Since when am I not allowed-”

“That’s not for you!” He balanced the tray on the one hand, reaching out and taking the bread from her with the other, returning it to its rightful place. He looked back at her curious face. “It’s just… not for you.”

Her eyes were wide, her hand still poised as if holding the slice. “Who is it for? You? Because if it is, I’m taking it again.”

“It’s just-” His eyes flickered toward the ceiling, briefly, his teeth nipping at his lip. “It’s for someone.”

Fran raised an eyebrow at him before letting her gaze drift up to where his had flickered. “Do you have someone here?”

“Maybe. Yes.”

“And which ‘someone’ is it?”

“A… A certain person. It’s a long story.”

“It’s not the waiter, is it? Because you know that’s a stupid thing to do. Especially now.”

“No. It’s not him. It’s someone else.” He went quiet for a few long seconds, his mouth hanging open, before he gave in and said: “It’s Tinsley.”

“It’s _who?!”_ Fran instantly sheep-dogged him back into the kitchen, taking the tray from reluctant hands and setting it on the kitchen counter, where wistful eyes remained watching it. She traded the revealing English for the more secretive Italian, just in case they could be heard from upstairs. _“Ricky, no. Tell me you’re joking. You didn’t sleep with him. That’s madness. And dangerous!”_

 _“No! No, I didn’t sleep with him. Not sexually.”_ Ricky rubbed at the back of his neck, pulling on a few of the short curls there. _“Something happened last night. I don’t think he wants anyone to know. But him staying here... It was just a friendly thing.”_

_“You’re bringing him breakfast as a friendly gesture, are you?”_

_“Shut up. Yes. It’s just friendly.”_

_"You've never done that for me!"_

Ricky turned his head as another figure appeared in the door, removing their hat as they came in. _“Oh, really? You too?”_

The Mayor raised his grey eyebrows, suddenly feeling quite out of place. “What did I do?”

 _“Nothing,”_ assured Fran, giving Ricky a reprimanding look as she advanced further into the kitchen. _“We’re simply encroaching on Ricky’s downtime.”_

“Oh. Apologies.”

Ricky didn’t respond. He was watching the Mayor with unblinking eyes, his mind suddenly whirring. _“You have to do what I say, don’t you?”_

“Yes, I do. It’s my job.”

_“...And you have to keep it a secret if I tell you to, yes?”_

“Most definitely.”

The corner of Ricky’s mouth turned upward into the smallest of smirks. “Then I have something to ask of you.”

* * *

Tinsley woke quickly, but not in an unpleasant manner. It was the first prickle of the memory of the night before that had him excited to wake, and he had therefore done so within seconds. But he woke to an empty bed.

He sat upright, looking around him, as if Ricky would be hiding under a pillow. For a few minutes Tinsley sat still, his hands to his mouth, fingertips just covering his lips, as he tried to decide whether or not he had dreamed the previous night. He would have easily believed so. His index finger brushed over the scab on his lip, and he realized that perhaps the night before had been a nightmare too. The scenes ran swift from one into the other; one minute a cold fear, and the next a warm comfort. One minute his wife, the next Ricky. He flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, and he felt strangely light. It was nice. He turned onto his side, his head moving from his pillow to the next, and it smelled like Ricky. He breathed him in. Then he rolled back onto his back and gave his arm a pinch, _just_ to double check that he really, truly wasn’t dreaming.

He got out of the bed and took his glasses from the bedside locker, pushing them on with the heel of his hand before stretching quite leisurely. He searched for his trousers, pulling them on once he’d located them. He didn’t take Ricky’s t-shirt off. He didn’t want to, and more importantly, he didn’t have to. Instead he took a jumper off the back of the couch, a dark green chunky knit one, and pulled it on over his head. It was weighted and warm, and felt like a hug. The white cotton of the t-shirt underneath was still visible over the collar of the jumper, but he didn’t mind the general scruffiness.

He had a snoop around the room. On the chest of drawers there was a mirror, and around it were some hair products, and some bottles of cologne. Tinsley raised his eyebrows at a few of them; not cheap. Of course.

He moved on to the bookshelves, plucking some out that he found interesting. There were a few thrillers, a horror or two. Some murder mysteries. And _Quatrefoil._ Tinsley smiled, taking it down, running a hand over its face. It all made sense to him now; Ricky’s interest, his curiosity in what was between the pages, his oh-so-casual questions about it. A lot made sense now. His lack of a wife or girlfriend. His anger over the murder of the Bosetti’s son. And the attack at the library. It was all because of this secret. Tinsley realized that Ricky was in much more danger than he was. If he was found out, it wouldn’t mean ostracization or disgust. It would mean death. Tinsley’s face had fallen slowly as his mind had sorted through these thoughts, had joined one sad dot to the next. He slid _Quatrefoil_ back into its place among the other books, letting his hand linger on it, his fingertip giving the spine a tap. He wouldn’t put Ricky in danger. He couldn’t. It wasn’t right.

His eyes landed on the plate of bread and cheese from the night before, untouched, and his stomach gurgled. The thought of food swiftly overwhelmed him, and he mapped his way back through the house, down the stairs, and towards the kitchen. He slowed at the sound of voices, whispering, secretive, and in Italian. One was Ricky, as recognizably enthusiastic as always, even with its hushed tones. Another was the right-hand woman, Francesca. She was interjecting only sporadically, perhaps to suggest, or reprimand. He could only attempt to decipher her tone. And the third spoke in English. The Mayor. Tinsley stayed quiet, frowning at the ground as he listened to what he could.

“I suppose I could,” said the Mayor, entirely capable of understanding the other language being spoken, although he couldn’t seem to be able to speak it. “But it would be most convincing at night.” He paused as Ricky spoke a few words. “Oh, yes. If the correct bar was chosen, a bribe could be offered, and I don’t see it being refused.” Francesca now, hushed. “A tumble or a fall should be efficient, but if it doesn’t kill her, I’ll finish it.” Ricky seemed satisfied, his voice growing to a normal tone again. “Well, I’ve never failed before. And if she’s unsuspecting, it will be smooth sailing.”

“Then take it as an order,” said Ricky, breezily. “And I want it done within twenty-four hours. I won’t be able to rein myself in for any longer than that.”

Tinsley took the few steps around the door frame, entering the room to see the three of them standing in a small circle by the kitchen counter. Ricky looked at him first, and a smile spread across his face instantly, his entire demeanor brightening. Fran looked over her shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Ricky’s clothes on him. She kept her mouth zipped, throwing away the key.

“Morning,” said Tinsley, picking at end of one of the jumper sleeves, as he had a habit of doing with his own. “Sorry. I didn’t know there were people down here. I was hungry.”

“It’s fine.” Ricky suddenly looked at the breakfast tray, his smile dropping. “Oh. Your coffee’s gone cold. I’ll get a fresh one.”

“And I’ll be on my way,” said the Mayor with a nod, placing his black hat back on over his greying hair. “Have a pleasant day.”

Fran gave Ricky a long, stern look, before saying something in Italian. Then she followed the Mayor out with a small smile at Tinsley. The front door closed seconds later. Tinsley and Ricky shared bashful smiles in the ensuing silence, both of them equally embarrassed and happy, letting out an awkward laugh. Ricky pressed his hands together in front of his mouth, his gaze lowered. Then he pointed at the tray and said: “I made breakfast.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“Absolutely.”

Ricky set about making a fresh pot, and Tinsley sat on a high stool at the kitchen counter and slowly, quietly buttered a slice of bread, and spread jam on it, and took a bite. The patio doors were open, and a blackbird hopped across the paved stones, chasing a butterfly. Tinsley swallowed the food in his mouth, taking a mouthful of orange juice, going still when Ricky suddenly turned to look at him, with that look on his face that meant he had something to say.

“I- I just wanted to say I’m glad I told you what I told you last night.”

Tinsley swallowed his orange juice, smiling. “I’m glad too. That you told me. And- And also that I told you the things I told you.”

“Good. Good, that’s good.” Ricky linked his hands in front of his chest, his face going a pleasant shade of pink. “I don’t really know what to do now.”

“Me neither.”

Ricky moved to stand on the opposite side of the counter to Tinlsey, resting his hands on it. “...How do you feel about going back to your house?”

“Not good. Not good at all.” Tinsley’s hand reflexively drifted to his own face, his fingertips brushing the bruises below his eye. “I don’t want to.”

“You’re not safe there.”

“No. I’m not. And it took me a long time to realize that.” Tinsley looked at him. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. Really. I mean that.”

Ricky’s face remained serious, his eyes watching Tinsley. “What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you wish she’d just disappear?”

After a minute or so, Tinsley nodded. “Yes. I know that sounds strange, but I wish she’d just- just stop existing. Sometimes I wish she’d never existed. I gave so much of my time to her. So much of my life. And she ruined it. I mean, look at me now.”

Ricky circled the counter to him, taking hold of both his hands, Tinsley’s fingers curved over his, resting in his palms. “Don’t think like that. Don’t. It’s the worst thing you can do.”

“I know. But I often think like that.” Tinsley looked at him with his doleful brown eyes, lips pressed in a line. “It’s hard to change, but-”

“You just have to take your time with it. And be patient with yourself.”

“But I’ve never tried to change before,” continued Tinsley, his voice firmer now. “I’ve never cared. But now I do. And it’s because of you. So I suppose I want to say thank you.”

Ricky smiled at him, his smile slipping as Tinsley stood up, and he wasn’t eye-to-eye anymore, instead he was eye-to-chest. He closed his eyes as he felt Tinsley’s hands cup his face, his heart skipping sporadic beats, and it stopped altogether when he felt the soft kiss pressed to his forehead. His breath left his lungs in one quiet sigh. Then Tinsley stepped around him, moving to the moka, taking it off the flame. Ricky stood where he was, eyes still closed, his teeth biting down lightly on his lip. He linked his hands behind his neck, turning to watch Tinsley pouring two cups of hot coffee.

“We’re going to have to be careful.”

Tinsley looked over his shoulder with a curious frown. “Careful?”

“About… About this. The whole situation is- I can’t even begin to explain what would happen to me if anyone learned about this.” Ricky accepted the cup, sitting down where Tinsley had just been sitting. “I’d be killed on the spot. And I’m not exaggerating.”

“I know. I understand.” Tinsley took a taste of his coffee, setting the patterned ceramic down in front of him with a soft rattle. “We can be careful. And- And take whatever this is slowly. As slow as we have to. Which is… very slowly.” A melancholic smile. “We’ll probably only be safe when we’re both old and grey, hm?”

Ricky kept both his hands around his cup, looking up at Tinsley with large eyes. “I can wait.”

“I can wait too,” came the quiet response. “And until then I’ll be happy just to have you around.”

“Me too. Definitely. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Ricky smiled at him. “Do you want to stay here for a while? We can-”

“Yes. Yes, I’d love to stay for a bit.”

He did stay for a bit. And a bit turned into quite a long while. Most of it was spent in Ricky’s living room, and they listened to music from the record player, and they chatted about all things under the sun. When they were hungry, they ate. When they were tired, they dozed, with Ricky’s head on Tinsley’s lap, Tinsley’s fingers running through his hair, gentle as a lullaby. Afternoon turned to evening, and the sun began to set. Tinsley checked his watch, and felt his heart grow heavy at the thought of going home. But he had to go some time, so he might as well get it over with. He eased himself out from under Ricky, leaving him asleep on the couch - he looked much too peaceful to be woken - and going upstairs to get changed back into his own shirt and tie. He left a small note for Ricky on the low table beside the couch, just to let him know that he was gone, and that he hoped to see him again sooner rather than later. Then he went to catch the train.

His wife didn’t come home that night. He didn’t think much of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu


	18. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Her affection and esteem had been gradual in their progress, and had now attained a degree of strength, which promised to decide the happiness or misery of her whole life."_ \- The Italian, Ann Radcliffe

Tinsley didn’t quite know how to feel. He stood at the top of the stone steps that led down to an alley, and she lay at the bottom, on the damp concrete. Two ambulance men were organizing a stretcher beside her, but it had already been confirmed; she was dead. She had fallen and struck her head off the steps as she went. Death was most likely instantaneous. They suspected that there was an abundance of alcohol in her bloodstream, and Tinsley had no reason to try and convince them otherwise. 

The first day she hadn’t come home had been no anomaly. The second day she hadn’t come home had been a bit more unusual, although not unheard of. The third day had been odd - she would usually have been back by now to sleep, or vent her anger at Tinsley, or bin any bills she didn’t want to be found. That same night the phone had rang, and it had been Holly. _I’m so sorry,_ she had said. _But you need to come down here now._ So he’d gotten dressed and gone down, and now he was here. He stepped back as the stretcher was carried past, watching her face, even though it was covered by a white cloth. He felt the smallest pinch of sadness, but nothing momentous. He looked back down the steps, at the blood visible on the concrete at the bottom, congealed. The sight was nothing he had never seen before, and it didn’t feel any different from the usual. He descended the steps, slowly one at a time. There were a few markings, some blood splatters here and there. Enough to be convincing. But he couldn’t help but think of the Mayor’s words from the other morning, his hushed conversation with Ricky and Fran. Tinsley, unfortunately, wasn’t stupid. He knew by now what Ricky was like, and what he’d do protect the ones he loved; there was no limit to what he’d do. He’d kill, without a doubt. Tinsley wondered when exactly he had started to believe that murder was acceptable in some cases. He was a detective, for crying out loud. This was supposed to be everything he was against. Yet he also wasn’t a fool. He knew that there were always those who did the dirty jobs that the law couldn’t do. Justice was difficult like that; everyone wanted it, until it was them at the receiving end. Sometimes it had to be... enforced. 

Tinsley wondered why he was even bothering to try and make excuses for his train of thought; the truth was that he had wanted his wife gone, and Ricky had done so. Permanently. As only Ricky could. Tinsley heard the ambulance doors shut, and he turned his head to watch it pull away from the curb and drive away down the street. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Tinsley,” said Holly quietly. “This must be shocking for you.”

“A little. Yes.”

“Take the rest of the week off. No debate.”

He nodded, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. “Okay.”

“And if you need anything, just let me know.”

He nodded again, but other than that he didn’t respond. He wasn’t anxious about the situation; he knew the routine, he’d been on the other side of it many a time. “...I have to go to the hospital. And give some details. You know the, uh, drill.”

“I do.” She tried a smile. “Would you like me to come with?”

“No. No, I think I’ll be okay.”

“If you’re sure.” She checked her watch; she had been quite busy over the past few days, and this was a rare half hour that she now had off. “I have to run, but don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything over the next few days, okay?”

He just nodded once more, as if only vaguely aware of the situation. Holly headed back to her car, and when she was in the driver’s seat did she take out the small piece of paper Lucy had given her, unfolding it, flattening it on the steering wheel. It gave an address, and underneath was signed _Lucía Goldsworth_ in swirling letters. Holly blew out a mouthful of air, leaving the letter on her lap as she started the engine. She hoped this little piece of paper would be enough to convince the Mayor that this wasn't some sort of trap. Then again, if it _was_ a trap, it would be quite a pointless one. There was no evidence against the Mayor for any murders, to such an extent he wasn't even in their records on the Goldsworths. Holly had only met him herself the week beforehand. If the Mayor was an assassin - which she didn't doubt for a second - then he was quite the expert indeed.

She drove to a different part of the city. It wasn't a run-down area, but it didn't scream lavishness and luxury like most of the Goldsworth's associates' houses. This was an apartment on the corner of a block, on the second floor. There was no letterbox for the Mayor's address, and no buzzer either. According to the outside world, his home simply didn't exist. Holly waited for a few minutes until someone was coming out of the building, and she stepped in quick before the door could close. Up the stairs she went, making good time, only because she was altogether quite curious as to what the man's home would look like.

It turned out to be altogether quite plain. Nice, clean, but plain. From what she could see from under his arm, anyway.

“Good afternoon,” she said, casual. “I’m not sure if you remember me. My name is Holly Horsley.”

His pale blue eyes were still narrowed somewhat, and he didn’t move from the doorway. “I remember you.”

“Excellent. I guess that’s the introductions out of the way.” She fumbled around in her bag, her head snapping up when one of the man’s hands reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist. “Excuse me? What do you think you’re-”

“I’ve been in this particular business for a long time, Ms Horsley. A stranger turning up to my door and rifling around in their bag before drawing a weapon is a series of events I’ve witnessed many times before.”

"You're very cautious, aren't you."

"Well, when was the last time you met an assassin who lived past thirty?" He took the bag off her without much more discussion, still openly suspicious. “What are you looking for in your bag. I’ll get it.”

She raised her chin self-righteously. “Very well. There's a pocket on the inside. In it is a note. From Lucy.”

The Mayor lifted his eyes, his pale brows raising. He murmured: “I’ll believe that when I see it, I suppose.”

He withdrew the note, and after checking her back once more, he handed it back. She snatched it off him and closed it over with a haughty: “You shouldn’t look through a lady’s purse.”

“I’m not a fool, you know. The ladies are the dangerous ones. Especially when they have their purses.” He unfolded the note and read it. Then he held it up to the light and read it again. “How did you get this?”

“Because Lucy hasn't left this city,” explained Holly. “She didn’t go with her daughter and grandchildren. She stayed here. And she’s staying with me.”

The Mayor stared at her in silence, his face impenetrable. “Why with you? Why not with me?”

“She didn’t want anyone to know,” said Holly.

“Why does she want me there now, then?”

“I don’t know! She just gave me that address and sent me off to do her bidding. Damned if I know what she’s up to.”

The Mayor folded over the note, holding it between the thumb and index finger of each hand. “I’m not sure if I trust you.”

“The signed piece of paper isn’t enough for you, is it not? Wait until I tell her that. Because I told her that it wouldn’t be enough, but she was so insistent that you’d understand, all wink-wink nudge-nudge, and now I’ve wasted twenty precious minutes of my day.”

He looked back at the note, and unfolded it once more. He supposed that if this Holly Horsley was going to ambush him, she could have just brought some cops to his home and surprised him here. Instead she turned up alone with quite an authentic note, and an entirely unnecessarily complicated story as to why he should go with her. He looked back at her for a moment, pressing his lips in a line.

“Fine. I’ll go with you. Give me a moment.”

He closed the door, and Holly was left in the hallway to count the floorboards. He emerged, as he said, a moment later, with his usual personalia; a black brimmed hat, a long black coat, and a pair of black gloves that he was checking quite closely for remnants of... something Holly would rather not ask about. He seemed satisfied that said remnants were not present, and he locked the door behind him before leading the way down the hall.

"Do you live nearby?" he asked, waiting for Holly to unlock her car.

"About twenty minutes drive." She started the engine once he had sat into the car, pulling off from the curb. “It’s been a long morning. A shocking one. The wife of one of my colleagues was found dead only an hour ago.”

“Found dead?” He spoke absent-mindedly, turning one of his leather gloves over in his hand, still checking to make sure it was spotless. “What was the coroner’s decision? Accidental or malicious?”

She gave him a slow sidelong look. “...Accidental, I believe.”

“Good,” he said lightly. “I don’t usually mind waiting to find out, but I have a bit of a soft spot for Ricardo. I didn’t want to have it go awry.”

Holly stared straight ahead at the road, barely registering the changing of lights. “...You killed her?”

“Oh, yes. I was ordered to. And she was lucky that it was me who was asked. If Ricky had done so himself, who knows what would have happened to her.”

Holly didn't respond straight away, her mouth hanging open a tad. “...I don’t understand. Why did you have to kill her?”

“According to Ricky, she struck Tinsley across the face.”

Holly mulled this over, her fingers tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel as they drove. “That would explain the bruises.”

“It would.”

"So- So you're telling me the woman was murdered."

"Yes." He finally pulled on his gloves with two firm yanks. "Apologies if that has shocked you. I trust you won't reveal it. Such a revelation would only complicate matters for everyone."

Holly mulled it over, and although it felt entirely wrong, she supposed what he said made sense. All it would do would pile up her already towering workload, and make Tinsley's life ten times more stressful than it must have already been. She suddenly realized how much of his behaviour this information explained; why he would sometimes turn up to work with red eyes, why he would always be the last one out of the office, why he gladly turned up for late night calls, and night duty too. No, perhaps she wouldn't launch an investigation into his wife's death. She took a moment to wonder whether or not living with Lucy was having a bit of an impact on her morality.

"Did Lucy say what she wanted with me?" asked the Mayor, still sitting stoic in the seat, seemingly unbothered as to the situation at hand. "This is unorthodox. I'm not supposed to keep a secret like this from the Don."

"Oh, if she managed to convince me to let her live in my home, then I think she could convince anyone to do anything in the world."

* * *

It was the next day - the evening of the next day, to be precise - and Tinsley was waiting in his car at the entrance to the Prohibition tunnel. He was waiting for Ricky. And they were going for dinner. He felt all sorts of strange; excited, but anxious, anxious enough to feel queasy. Perhaps it was all moving too fast. His wife was in a morgue in the hospital and here he was about to go for dinner with a man he had technically been seeing behind her back. But he hadn't known at the time that his feelings were being reciprocated. He had only been hoping. Which, perhaps, was almost worse.

There was a rapid knocking on the car window, making him jump. Ricky beamed at him from behind the glass. He pulled open the door once Tinsley had unlocked it, sitting in, and he was still smiling brightly.

"Evening!"

Tinsley smiled. He couldn't help it. Ricky's was contagious. "Good evening."

"Well, let's go then. I'm _starving."_

Tinsley didn’t drive the car. He sat, engine rumbling, and his hands gripping the top of the steering wheel, picking at his thumbnail. “I need to ask you something. Just before we go.”

“Sure! Whatever you want.”

“And I’d like you to answer truthfully. Even if the truth is what I think it is.”

The reply was not as enthusiastic this time around. It was nervous. “Okay. That’s fine.”

Tinsley took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Did you kill her?”

Ricky didn’t pretend not to know who the ‘her’ was in the question. “No.”

“Did you order her to be killed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she hurt you. Even after I had warned her not to.”

Tinsley bit on his lip; it really had been that simple. “...You didn’t have to kill her.”

“What should I have done instead?”

“...I don’t know. Just- Just sent her away. Or something.”

“I considered different ways of how to get her to leave. I did.” Ricky took a deep breath through his nose, pushing his hands down his legs to grip his knees. He knew this question was going to be asked at some point. He was glad that it was sooner rather than later. A secret like this only curdled poisonously over the years, if not brought to light. “I considered them when I collected you from your house. I considered them on the drive to mine. I considered them when I was cleaning the blood off your face. I considered them when you were asleep and you clung to me like- like a child to a teddy. I had all night to consider the options available to me. And I kept coming back to the same decision.”

Tinsley looked at him with an oddly helpless expression. He wished it was more difficult to keep loving Ricky, but it wasn’t. It was impossibly easy. “I wish you had told me.”

“I thought it best if you didn’t know.”

Tinsley let out a low sigh. “I loved her, you know. Once. A long time ago. But I did.”

He expected Ricky to reprimand him for this, or turn green and seethe with envy, but he didn’t. He stayed patient and understanding. He was a man of paradoxes. Cruel and kind. Harsh and gentle. Dangerous and comforting to be around. All things that shouldn't exist within the same person. But they did. “We all have an unhappy love for the things that hurt us. It’s human. We seem to be the only species that will willingly stay somewhere where we’re suffering.”

“I just became so used to all of it, I couldn’t imagine myself without it.”

“I could imagine you without it. I saw you without it, a few times. Every now and then I’d catch a glimpse of your real personality. It was rare, but I was drawn to it. Indescribably. You’re deeper than you let on. But you do have an awful habit of hiding.”

Tinsley didn’t quite know how to respond to this. How does a patient respond to the surgeon that’s cut them open and is carefully removing whatever had been causing them such pain? He didn’t know. “No one’s ever noticed before.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever given anyone a chance.” He reached over to give Tinsley’s chest a light tap with his knuckles. “Must have gotten lonely in there.”

The reply was quiet. “Yes. Everyday.”

“Don’t,” said Ricky, sad but fond. “I don’t want to turn up to dinner sad.”

“Oh, you’re right. As usual.” Tinsley started the engine, pulling away from the sidewalk. “Where were you thinking?”

Ricky directed him to a vaguely familiar restaurant, smiling at the look on Tinsley’s face once they got out of the car. “You remember?”

"I remember." He locked the car, speaking in a whisper. "And you're sure we're safe doing this?"

"There's guards up and down this street, Tinsley. And I told them we were going to discuss business."

Tinsley grinned. "Ah, the old reliable."

It was still a stunning place, tall ceilings and draping red curtains on the windows and white tablecloths and candles glowing softly. The tables were still occupied by men in suits, and a wife or two, and for all Tinsley knew they might as well have been the same people from the last time. But this time he and Ricky weren't walking in at loggerheads, still uncertain about their positions, about each other. They had been closer to enemies than anything else. Now they were... something different. Something better. The owners greeted Ricky warmly, as they did last time, as people usually did with Ricky, shaking his hand in that familiar manner which included gripping his forearm. The head waiter led them to a table, a quieter one, a bit more secretive. He insisted on taking their coats, bowing his head and ducking away, letting them know that someone would be with them right away. Tinsley rolled his eyes as he sat down. 

“You’re a bit of a celebrity around here, aren’t you?” 

“Whatever do you mean?” grinned Ricky, scooching his chair in.

“Yes sir Mister Goldsworth, this way Mister Goldsworth, please sign this for my wife Mister Goldsworth!”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” Ricky flipped open his menu with mock-attitude, setting his chin on the heel of his hand. “If I invite you out for dinner, I don’t expect to be slandered the entire time.”

“I’m not _slandering_ you.”

“You’re making fun of me!”

“Oh, you can take it.” Tinsley opened his own menu, laying it flat, perusing it with his brows slightly raised. It was entirely in Italian. “What’s vongole?”

“Clam sauce,” said Ricky, trying not to smile at the man's pronunciation.

“Oh. No thank you. What’s puttanesca?”

“Olives and origano and chilli, usually. I think they put anchovies in it here. It’s very good.” Ricky closed over the menu. “It’s what I’m having, anyway. So how about you try something you know you’d like, and you can try a little of mine, and if you like it you can get it next time?”

Tinsley looked back at the menu. “I don’t know what any of this means. I just recognize bolognese. And carbonara.”

“Do you like carbonara? It’s delicious here.”

“Good! I’ll have that.” He closed the menu over with finality. “How in the world did you manage to learn two languages?”

“I wasn’t presented with much of a choice.” Ricky smiled. “It’s funny, from time to time. Do you know what puttanesca means?”

“No, not a clue.”

“Whore’s sauce.”

“It’s what?!”

“Apparently it was just a very popular dish in brothels,” shrugged Ricky, sitting back and crossing his legs. “But the English language did what it so frequently does, and decided to claim the word without caring for its origin. At least it’s entertaining, most of the time.”

A waitress came by and took their orders, conversing in Italian with Ricky, and Tinsley had nothing to do but stare at the man across from him, and wonder how he had done it. How had he managed to have his feelings reciprocated by a man like Ricky. He wondered if he’d ever figure out the answer. But he knew life worked in mysterious ways, and for once this didn’t seem like a bad thing. The waitress took their menus and moved on, and Ricky turned back to Tinsley with a friendly smile still on his face. Tinsley smiled back.

“I ordered wine,” explained Ricky. “It’s still a tiny bit easier for me to talk Italian to people.”

“That’s fine. I never know what you're saying, but I like listening to you.” Tinsley pulled at his collar, pretending to be too warm for comfort. “Gets me a bit flustered, I’ll admit.”

“Oh, shut up.” Ricky rolled his eyes, but he was barely stifling a smile. “Does it really?”

“Sometimes. But only when you speak it. So maybe it’s just a ‘you’ thing.”

Ricky lowered his gaze as the bottle of wine arrived and was uncorked, and he simply let his fingers raised just an inch off the table, and like a servant to a lord, the waitress left the bottle and the glasses and continued on into the rest of the tables. Ricky picked up the bottle himself, pouring first a glass for Tinsley, and then one for himself, pensive, his gaze still low.

“Do I do many things that make you flustered?”

Tinsley paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. "...Yes."

"Like what?"

"It's hard to pinpoint them. It's just the way you go about things. I like it. All of it."

Ricky took a taste of his wine, and it seemed satisfactory. He put the glass down. "You've never slept with a man, correct?"

Tinsley's eyes widened a tad at the sudden change in subject, and he didn't respond for a moment. "No. I haven't."

"Does that make you nervous?"

"A little." Tinsley gave his chin a scratch, attempting some level of nonchalance. "You told me you've slept with people before. Were they all men?"

"Yes," came the simple reply.

"How many?"

"Perhaps five or six. Nothing astronomical. And it never went further than physical. I never planned for it to." He shrugged his shoulders. "I expected to spend the rest of my life alone. Happy, but alone."

"And then?"

Ricky gave him a wry look from under his brows. "And then."

Tinsley smiled, just a small one, yet still a whole lot smug. "And can I ask what made you like me?"

Ricky did what he always did, and bit into the subject fearlessly. "Oh, a lot. I like how you're soft but you're not weak. You don't let others push you around, but you don't set out to push others around either. I like how you hold yourself. I like your hair and how it's consistently a disaster. I like your voice; it's so deep and warm and pleasant. And I like your eyes."

"My eyes?"

"Yes, your eyes. I remember one day just being struck by how - for lack of a better word - pretty they are. They have little black freckles in them."

Tinsley had turned a bashful red, trying to cover his smile with his hand. "Thank you."

"They're that lovely warm brown," said Ricky dreamily. "I wish mine were more that shade than just black."

"What? You have the most incredible eyes."

"I do?"

"Have you ever heard of Mieczysław Jastrun? He's a Polish poet."

"How can you pronounce _that_ name correctly but not the word vongole?"

"Shh." Tinsley continued on, but he was grinning. "Not to be too soppy, but I read some of his work when I get the chance, and I read one line that... Well, it made me think of your eyes."

Ricky raised his brows. "Oh? Do tell."

 _"In you are stars, darkness and fire."_ Tinsley gestured at his own face. "That's like your eyes. If that makes sense."

"It makes the best of sense," smiled Ricky. 

"They're one of the first things I noticed about you."

Tinsley went quiet as he saw the waitress coming, and she took their orders with a smile, and as per usual the smile lingered on Ricky, along with her gaze. Yet when she moved away, Tinsley didn't feel the heaviness, the disappointment he had felt the last few times. He knew now that there wasn't a chance of him finding a rival in one of the many waitresses who fawned over their table. 

"What's the smiling about?" asked Ricky, curious.

"Nothing." Tinsley went back to his wine and the conversation. "What was the first thing you noticed about me?"

"I hope you weren't hoping for anything exciting, because the first thing I noticed was your height."

"Ah, I should have expected that."

"If I had such height I'd be unstoppable."

"You're not short, you're just short relative to me. Like a lot of people out there."

"I know," said Ricky, feigning moodiness. "I got it from my dad's side. My grandfather on my mom's side was six foot."

"That's tragic. Your life must have been such a struggle." Tinsley sighed in mock-pity. "I don't know what I would have done if I had nothing but good looks and charm and charisma in buckets."

Ricky pouted, but he was trying not to laugh. "You're making fun of me again."

"You do make it quite easy."

"You do too, you know! But I wouldn't be able to make fun of you. It would feel like kicking a puppy."

Tinsley laughed. "I remember a comment or two about a certain facial feature of mine. I believe it was compared to a beak?"

"Oh, that was once! And really, I like your nose." Ricky smiled at him. "You're very handsome, you know. I don't believe I've alerted you to that fact yet."

Tinsley flushed with the same shyness as a teenager on a date with their first crush. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Say that. I don't think it'll look like we're discussing business if I'm red as a berry the entire time."

Ricky looked him over curiously. "...You're squirming in your seat."

"I'm not!" Tinsley pushed a hand back through his hair, lowering his gaze. "The food's coming."

The waitress set their wide-rimmed bowls down in front of each of them, the pasta inside steaming, and she topped up their glasses before continuing on. Ricky looked at Tinsley, who wasn't looking back. The man's cheeks were still coloured pink. He was now fully concentrating on his food, and Ricky decided to do the same. He slipped his fork into the spaghetti and gave it an expert twirl before bringing the neatly wrapped mouthful to his mouth. Tinsley's head was ducked but his eyes were following the fork's journey, and Ricky took the mouthful and drew the fork out between his lips, slowly. Just to make sure. Tinsley swallowed hard, averting his gaze, visibly flustered as he got to his feet.

"I need to go to the washroom."

Ricky smiled sweetly. "Sure."

Ricky continued with his meal happily. That had been a good sign. He had been the slightest bit concerned as to whether or not Tinsley would be sexually interested in him. He knew that on every other level they were very much compatible, but carnally? He had had the slightest of doubts. He of course expected Tinsley to be somewhat nervous when the time came, but they could work through that. Yet the last thing he wanted to do was pressure Tinsley into any act, so Ricky would rein himself in, and he would wait. He would wait until Tinsley decided to take the step in that direction. So when Tinsley returned, Ricky moved on with a different conversation altogether, and Tinsley did too. They finished their meal contentedly and comfortably.

Tinsley drove Ricky back to the entrance to the tunnel, parking up on the curb. He cut the engine, letting the headlights turn off. He watched as Ricky took off his seat belt and opened the car door. Ricky smiled at him, warmly.

"I enjoyed that."

"Me too," said Tinsley, staring at him. "Very much."

"Good. I'm glad." Ricky went quiet for a moment, and he looked at Tinsley, and Tinsley looked back. "Goodnight, then."

Tinsley nodded, clearing his throat. "Mm. Goodnight."

Ricky lingered just a few seconds longer. "Goodnight."

He leaned over the gap between their seats, and pressed a soft kiss to Tinsley's cheek, hearing the quiet inhale at the sensation. The second kiss didn't land on his other cheek. It was pressed to the corner of his mouth, where it could be labelled an accident, where it didn't warrant a need for reaction. Tinsley's heart clenched, the desire spiking through him, shattering his breath in his chest in one sharp exhale. He was almost light-headed. Their lips were close, close enough that he could feel the heat. His nerves got the better of him, and he kept his eyes closed, his body frozen in place. Ricky's voice was patient.

"Get home safe."

Tinsley's shoulders slumped as the man got out of the car, closing the door behind him. He let his head fall forward onto the steering wheel, muttering curses at himself for being such a wuss. He was a grown man. He was braver than this. But Ricky gave him butterflies like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He lifted his head, starting the engine, and he went home. He was still getting used to going home without fear. He was getting used to a lot of things lately, and really, he couldn't get used to them quick enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yah i have a tumblr if any of u guys wanna come on down then come on down! it's just icantwritegood. that's it. thank u


	19. Great Simplicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What has happened now is that I’ve fallen madly in love with a woman. And it seems to me so absolutely natural and genuine – there’s nothing problematic about it at all. I just feel proud and uncontrollably glad. These last weeks have been like one long dance of rich adventure, tenderness, intensity – an expedition into new domains of great simplicity and beauty.”_ \- Tove Jansson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's another self-indulgent date chapter y'all

Ricky stood at the edge of the pond. It was no longer smooth and unruffled; it was beginning to ice over, slowly, gradually, just a sprinkling of silver over the water for now. Fall had gone, and winter was here, and he was dreaming of days when the sun had been out and the ground had been warm. The ducks were no longer in the pond; perhaps because Mia and Marta were no longer there to act as an endless resource of bread, or perhaps because they had discovered a sunnier, happier place, and simply went there. Ricky didn’t let himself imagine how such an act would feel, how freeing it would be. Instead he focused on the two swans that still stubbornly remained. They were standing on the opposite edge of the water, as if it was too cold, too dangerous now to enter. Yet they had to enter if they wished to be able to take off and fly away. Such was life.

A flash of colour caught Ricky’s eye, and he frowned at the frozen mud a bit further down from him. It was a faded pink, half-wedged in the ground. He moved along the edge of the water, crouching down and picking out the cup with a gloved hand. A piece of soggy cardboard had never brought him such sudden misery. He could remember her words, sweet and innocent. _Zio, the ducks took Mia’s gelato cup and now she’s crying._ He turned the cup over in his hands. The gelato stand and its striped awning was long gone, and wouldn’t return until the sun ruled the sky again. Unfortunately, the wicker chairs had gone with it, so he had no option but to stand while he waited. He wasn’t sure why he had arrived early. He knew he would think of the twins, and from them he would think of Lorenzo, and from him he would think of Isabella and Lucy. He missed them like it was a limb he had lost, a part of himself he could hardly function without. But he would. He would just have to get used to it over time, and be content in that fact that they were safe. Perhaps somewhere sunnier, happier, like where the ducks had gone.

He wasn’t waiting for much longer. The crunching of stones came from behind, and he felt the lightest of brushes on his lower back, a comforting hand. Tinsley smiled down at him.

“Hi.”

Ricky smiled back. “Hello.”

“Why are you holding some trash? Were you waiting so long you were at risk of starvation out here? Did you have to start fending for yourself?”

Ricky gave him a mock-disapproving glance. “It’s sentimental trash.”

“Oh.” Tinsley looked at it, still standing just at the shorter man’s shoulder. “How so?”

"I think it's from one of the last times I brought the twins here. I used to bring them here every Saturday for gelato."

Tinsley watched the side of his face, the lowered gaze still stuck on the cup in his hands. "You miss them?"

"Unbearably so."

Tinsley wished there was something he could do to make the other man smile. There wasn't much, but he decided to try anyway. "You said you used to bring them here and make them search for the prettiest leaf, didn't you?"

Ricky nodded, turning his head to look back over his shoulder at him. He felt Tinsley's gloved fingers fit comfortably, secretly, through his, and then Tinsley's other hand rested on the back of his, holding it safe. Tinsley smiled and said: "So let's do that."

Their hands slipped apart, but they remained close as they started walking along the path, where each grey stone fit cosily against the next. Their breaths fogged as they walked. The leaves on the ground had become less crunchy and more flimsy, but Tinsley kept his eyes on the trees, as if finding the perfect leaf was the most important task of his life. Ricky kept his eyes on Tinsley. They had been happy these last few weeks, easy and natural, but they were still wary, still careful. Tinsley still hadn't crossed that line, that certain line that Ricky was desperate to throw aside. He continued watching Tinsley's face out of the corner of his own eye. There was still a barrier up, if a soft one. Then again, he couldn't expect anything else. Tinsley had been with his wife for years. He couldn't be expected to just slide from that sort of relationship into a new one, perfectly willing to trust again. But Ricky wanted that trust, more than anything, more than everything. So he would wait. And wait. And wait. For however long it took. It was a moment before he realized that they had stopped walking and that Tinsley was staring back at him.

"What is it?" asked Tinsley, his voice muffled somewhat by his scarf. "Is there something on my face?"

Ricky shook his head. "No."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," said Ricky. "I just like looking at you."

"You do?"

"Very much."

Tinsley smiled. Then he reached out, letting a finger rest ever so softly at the bottom of Ricky's neck, just at the dip where his collarbones met. "It's cold. You should button your shirt."

Ricky rolled his eyes. "You sound like my mom."

"But you have goosebumps. I can see them."

"I'm _fine."_

Tinsley took his hand away to unwrap his scarf from around his neck. He looped it around Ricky's neck instead, gentle as he knotted it, before tucking the loose ends behind the lapels of Ricky's black coat. "Better?"

Ricky nodded, breathing in the warmth, the comforting scent of the scarf. "I suppose."

"So stubborn."

"Pot and kettle."

Tinsley continued on beneath the trees with a familiarity to the path he was taking. It wasn't long before Ricky realized why his steps were so casual; the small clearing was in front of them now, with the single bench beneath a particularly fiery tree with leaves that had only begun to fall. It was the bench that Tinsley frequented during his breaks from work. Tinsley was moving towards it now with sure steps, slipping in behind the bench, head turned up to study the leaves of the tree. Ricky sat, even though the wood of the bench was cold; it was dry, at least. He watched a squirrel across the way, its red bushy tail visible as it scurried through the fallen leaves, almost indistinguishable from them. Then a gloved hand appeared in his vision, holding a leaf that was almost a perfect gradient of bright yellow to rich red.

"Well?" asked Tinsley, as if it was a project to be studied. "What do you think?"

Ricky nodded wisely, taking it from him, turning it over. "Beautiful specimen. Almost no discolouration, minimal rotting. All five points intact; very impressive. A sycamore, I believe? I'll give this a nine out of ten."

Tinsley scoffed. _"Nine_ out of ten? What, you think you could do better?"

Ricky straightened up with a sly smile. "I can always do better."

He returned minutes later with a leaf of his own, and they sat side-by-side on the bench and compared them based on five aspects; rotting, discolouration, wholeness, size, and colour gradient.

"It's not fair," said Tinsley after a few minutes of quietly debating. "They're incomparable. Mine has five points - _all_ intact, I'll remind you - while yours is, what, a birch? Maybe a beech? It has a single point!"

"But the edges of mine are serrated!"

"And beginning to rot, I see."

"Only the smallest amount." He gave his leaf a twirl. "The colour on mine is more striking."

"But it has no gradient. It's just red."

"Gradient shmadient."

"Oh, so now the gradient doesn't matter?" Tinsley rolled his eyes. "Typical."

"I was at a disadvantage," said Ricky haughtily. "I couldn't reach the higher leaves, and they're always fresher."

"Are you sure? I don't think that's true. I think they rot from the top down."

"Well you had more options," persisted Ricky.

"One minute you complain about your height, the next you're using it against me."

"No, no, look, I'll show you something which will definitely clarify the winner." Ricky took the leaf from the other man's hand, holding the two side by side. "You see, my leaf is entirely whole and in perfect condition. While yours-" He suddenly scrunched it up, fast as lightning, and it was already ruined before Tinsley's woeful _noooo_ was complete. "-is in terrible condition. The worst leaf I've ever set my eyes on. How dare you even have the audacity to hand such a monstrosity to me!"

Tinsley's act cracked, and he started laughing, burying his face in his hands. "You're such a child at times."

"But I'm not a child right now." He held his un-crumpled leaf aloft, like the Statue of Liberty with her torch. "I'm a winner."

 _"Fine._ You win." Tinsley rose to his feet, and he turned so swiftly to extend his gloved hand that his long grey coat swished about his slim frame like a cloak. "And do you want to know what you've won?"

Ricky cast a quick glance about before slipping his hand into Tinsley's, and he felt the grip firm on it as Tinsley pulled him to his feet. "What?"

"I think a hot cup of cocoa."

Ricky smiled. It was just as he used to do with the twins, and Tinsley had remembered. Each time he was with Tinsley he experienced, over and over, moments in which he would have fallen in love, if he hadn’t been so deeply in it already. "That sounds perfect."

"And this time I'll choose the place."

Tinsley led the way through the streets that were swiftly beginning to darken with heavy cloud above. He had changed so rapidly and so smoothly over the month or so _she_ had been gone. It was like seeing an abused dog set foot on soft grass for the first time, and its excitement at realizing that the world was full of such luxuries. Ricky eagerly followed him.

It was a café tucked away in an alley, the sort that swapped wooden chairs for armchairs and sofas, and had printed lettering on the window. Warm golden light caused a shine off dark wood, and there were only a few people there, reading or writing or simply pondering life as they observed the air. Two elderly women were playing chess in a corner. There was a man at a table by himself, head ducked as he read some Russian prose. It was a small space, and delightfully secret. Tinsley and Ricky decided on a table just the slightest bit secluded, deliciously private, hidden in around a corner. There was a single oil lamp overhead, and it glowed softly.

"How did you find a place like this?" asked Ricky, taking off his coat and draping it over the back of his chair. He left Tinsley's scarf on. "Did you hear about it from someone?"

"No, I just... found it," said Tinsley, already sitting, drawing his gloves off one finger at a time.

"You wander down dark alleys frequently?"

"I walk past here some days, and I noticed that some respectable-looking people would come and go from the alley, and that of course piqued my interest a little, for I am, of course, a respectable-looking person."

"You're quite the flâneur, hm?"

"I suppose," said Tinsley, quite modestly indeed. "If that impresses you."

"Oh, insurmountably."

"Then I'm the greatest flâneur the world has ever seen."

Ricky scooched his chair in, and a waiter appeared, and from him they ordered two hot cocoas, with marshmallows, of course, and a hearty dollop of cream. They happily chatted while the drinks were being prepared, and they were having - as they always had together - a recklessly enjoyable time. Tinsley found he could open his mouth and say anything whatsoever on his mind, and Ricky would gladly listen, and absorb it, and reply with just as much enthusiasm. There was no pressure, there was no stress. He could do this forever, he realized. He could sit in a room with Ricky and talk about whatever they wished to talk about, forever. Only when the cups of cocoa arrived in their sturdy mugs was there a lull in the conversation. Tinsley let out a satisfied hum at the first taste.

"It is very good," nodded Ricky, gaze lowered pensively.

"And what do you know that's better?" asked Tinsley wryly.

"What do you mean?"

"You nodded in that manner that means you like something, but you like something else better."

Ricky stared at him a moment before grinning. "You're beginning to know me too well."

"I feel I'm only scratching the surface."

"Well, since you asked," said Ricky, folding his arms on the table. "I used to bring the twins to an Italian place for cocoa. It's thicker, much more chocolatey, less milky."

"That does sound nice."

"But I'm enjoying this more."

"Oh? How come?"

"Because you're here." Ricky grinned at the immediate blush on the other man's face. "You're so easily flustered. Like a maiden in some knight's tale."

"And what would that make you? The knight, I suppose?"

"Oh, absolutely," said Ricky, nose in the air. "I believe I fit the criteria."

"Valiant, honorable, handsome?"

"You said it, not me."

"Well, I won't deny it." Tinsley took another mouthful of cocoa, and it warmed him from the inside out. "And-"

"Wait a moment." Ricky reached over, lightly brushing some stray cream off the tip of Tinsley's nose with his thumb. "Scruffy."

"It's a curse. I can't help it."

Ricky laughed, sitting back, crossing his legs. He let his hand remain on the table, just at the halfway mark. "I like it. I think it's endearing."

Tinsley had his gaze lowered, watching the other man's hand. He went ahead and took hold of it, drawing it forward, turning it so that it was palm-up. "Do you know how to read palms?"

Ricky shook his head, watching as Tinsley kept one hand under his, the other hand lightly tracing his palm. "Let me guess. You learned it from some book."

Tinsley continued running his fingertips over Ricky's palm, softly. "No. I don't know either. So I'll just improvise." He set his elbows on the table, keeping hold of Ricky's hand as he brushed the man's unbuttoned sleeve down along his forearm, baring more skin. "It's necessary I don't have any distraction."

Ricky swallowed, his eyes flickering up to meet Tinsley's. "Okay."

"This line is definitely your heart line," decided Tinsley after a minute or so, altogether quite knowledgeably. "Because it's the strongest. And _this_ one is your love line."

"Why?"

"Because it starts a bit later than the rest," said Tinsley. "But it also goes on longer."

Ricky smiled at this, but the smile wavered when Tinsley took hold of his wrist, gently bringing his hand forward and kissing his palm, eyes closed. He kissed it again, a soft pressing of lips to skin, and Ricky let out a shaky breath at the sensation. He wanted to knock the table aside and crawl onto Tinsley's lap and feel that same soft kiss on his lips. But he forced himself to stay in control, even as Tinsley turned his hand over to kiss the back of it too. Then Tinsley let go, and sat back, his own hands resting on the curved edge of the table as he regained some composure. He wasn't sure what had just come over him. The sudden urge to kiss Ricky, to kiss whatever part of him he could reach, had overwhelmed him entirely. He cleared his throat before bringing his cup to his mouth and finishing his drink in one last mouthful.

"You don't have to be shy," said Ricky quietly. "I like it when you do things like that."

"It's not shyness."

"Do you know what it is?"

"It's just- It's just a bit of fear, I suppose. I'm still a little bit hesitant to make myself... well, vulnerable."

"That's okay." Ricky tried a smile, a small one. Then he leaned forward, all of a sudden quite serious. "But I want you to know that I'd never hurt you. Ever. I swear."

Tinsley smiled. "I know."

"Good. Good, that's all that matters." He checked his watch, brows raising. "Oh. Time flies."

Tinsley checked his watch too, startled by how quickly the time had passed. "Oh, damn it. I told Holly I'd come in for the afternoon. I better hurry."

In order to prove his role as the knight in shining armour, Ricky paid for the drinks, and as he stood at the counter the man to his left nudged him. Ricky spared him a curious look, and blinked at the vaguely recognizable pale eyes. The man had a neat goatee and small circular spectacles, and wore a grey suit. A grey hat rested on the bar in front of him, just as it had that night a lifetime ago, where he had given Ricky some valuable advice that had worked out perfectly in the end.

"I assume the apology went well," smiled the man.

Ricky blinked again, caught off-guard. He followed the man's gaze to where Tinsley was waiting by the door, and he scrambled to make an excuse. "Oh, no, not- That isn't-"

"You don't have to make up a story," said the man patiently. "You described him much too well for me to believe you were talking about somebody else. But don't worry, I'll keep your secret."

Ricky stared at him, stunned. "Thank you."

"And you might need this." The grey man handed him a black umbrella with a curved wooden handle, nodding at the window. "The heavens are about to open, and there's few things sweeter than sharing an umbrella with your lover."

Ricky took the umbrella, and finally he smiled at him, widely, and said again with much more enthusiasm: "Thank you."

The man was right, just as he was the last time he gave Ricky advice, although it was Tinsley who opted to hold the umbrella. They'd hardly been walking for half a minute before the rain started pouring, and people stopped walking and started running, back and forth across the street, cars honking and umbrellas flying and coats whipping, and Tinsley and Ricky sauntered quite calmly indeed, the eye of the storm. They didn't talk. Ricky could still feel the kisses on his skin, and he couldn't stop thinking about them, and he doubted he would for the foreseeable future.

It wasn't long before the street was theirs entirely, and they turned the corner onto a smaller shortcut, with red brick wall either side, hiding them from prying eyes. Tinsley's heart was racing in his chest in the most pleasant way, because he was excited beyond words, for once in his life. He wandered to a halt, slowing him and Ricky to a standstill, and he turned to face him. Ricky was looking up at him with large eyes, pleading, which was a new sensation for him, as he had never had to plead for anything in his life. He felt the tips of Tinsley’s fingers under his chin, light but firm, guiding him forward. Ricky let himself be led, his heart skipping in his chest at the touch. He closed his eyes as he felt Tinsley’s thumb brush an intrusive raindrop off his cheek. It brushed again, and Ricky pushed into the hand like a cat, letting out a shaky breath. For a moment Tinsley’s hand remained, warm, fitting perfectly against the side of his face, like it belonged there. Ricky placed his own hand over it to hold it in place, his brows drawing up and together, helpless.

“I wish you would just kiss me,” he whispered, barely audible over the pattering of rain around them. “I can’t stand it anymore.”

“I want to. I do. More than anything.”

“I know.” Ricky’s fingers slid down from Tinsley’s hand to rest around his wrist. “But don’t- don’t tease me like this. It’s cruel.”

“I’m sorry.” Tinsley lowered his hand from Ricky’s face, and he felt the man’s fingers still around his wrist. “I’m sorry. I- I'm more nervous than I thought I was to move on. It might just... take some time.”

He brought his hand back to his side, and Ricky’s followed, their fingers remaining loosely intertwined. Ricky stayed close, using the umbrella’s cover as an excuse. He watched their hands, watched how Tinsley gently pushed his fingers further through Ricky’s. The lightest touch sent goosebumps all the way through him.

“And what would it take,” said Ricky quietly. “For you to let me in. Entirely. Because I really would do anything.”

“I don’t know,” came the equally quiet response. “No one ever has before. No one has even gotten close. Not as close as you.”

Ricky didn’t lift his gaze. He mumbled: “I’m an impatient man, you know.”

Tinsley tripped over his words in his urgency. “I- I do know, and I’m sorry, and I know it’s painful, and-”

“It’s torturous. So much so that I can’t stand it. But I’d do this forever if it was my only option.”

Tinsley’s eyes fluttered, his mouth parting at the words. “Oh.”

“I’m an impatient man,” repeated Ricky, both hands holding Tinsley’s one now, thumbs brushing over his knuckles. “...But I’m willing to wait for you. I’m willing to wait for the rest of my life.”

Tinsley felt the pressure lift off him just at those words, so suddenly he felt faint with relief. He could feel his eyes growing hot and wet, and his vision blurred. He could breathe again, and he was, shakily, unsteadily, and he realized that all his life he had been drowning until this moment. The umbrella slipped from his weak grip and dropped to the wet pavement, and his hands cupped Ricky's face, and he drew him forward and sealed the moment with a soft, secret kiss. It was a sweet touching of lips, pressed together, and suddenly every line of every book Tinsley had ever read made sense; soul met soul, and they loved with a love that was more than love.

Ricky’s eyes remained closed when Tinsley drew away, his head still tilted back, his lips still parted so slightly. He couldn’t feel the rain dripping from his hair, from the end of his nose, he couldn’t feel it seeping through his clothes. He couldn’t feel anything but what he’d just felt. It filled him all the way up. He only let himself come back to earth when he heard the umbrella scraping off the ground. He watched as Tinsley picked it up in one hand and pressed it into Ricky’s, curling the man’s fingers around the handle. Neither of them risked a word, their gazes soft on each other. Tinsley’s head turned away first, and then the rest of his body followed. He walked off into the rain, hands in his coat pockets, and Ricky watched him go until he was gone, and then for a few minutes after. He touched his own lips, lightly, and they felt numb, like the kiss had quite literally shocked him. He wanted more, _needed_ more. The thought of waiting until the next time they met was suddenly an unbearable trial.

He started walking. He hurried down the alley where Tinsley had gone, coming out on the other side, spotting the detective crossing the road to the park. He ran after him, letting the umbrella fall to the ground behind, and the rain stung his face, and his rapid footsteps through the park made Tinsley turn. Tinsley still seemed somewhat dazed, but he sharpened up in time to catch hold of Ricky as the shorter man leaped into his arms and kissed him with a hot fervour, harder than the first, more desperate in its need. Tinsley set him back on his feet, their arms still wrapped around each other, their mouths still slotted together. Tinsley pushed into the kiss, tilting the shorter man's head back with the force, letting his arms wrap right around him, one around his waist and the other around his shoulders as he drew him as close against his body as he could. Ricky let himself be swept up in his arms, his cheeks flushed and his breaths heavy as he kissed him and was kissed by him. The sensation was divine. He let his lips part against the other man’s, their tongues brushing, so passionate it had him light-headed. His knees were weak, and Tinsley was the only thing holding him up, holding him together. He never wanted it to end. But it did, and they stayed wrapped up in each other, their mouths lingering close. Tinsley kissed him just once more, a soft one, and Ricky could have melted right into the ground. A silence followed.

"Kiss me again," whispered Ricky, cupping the taller man's face. His skin was wet with the rain. "Never stop."

"If I could, I wouldn't hesitate."

"Once more then. Just once."

Tinsley did so, their noses pressing into each other's cheeks with the force of their kiss, but by then the rain had started to stop, and people would soon be reemerging from the buildings. "I have to go."

Ricky nodded, swallowing. "Okay."

"But I want to do this again. I want to do it every day. For the rest of my life."

Ricky nodded again, eagerly. "Me too. Definitely."

Tinsley smiled, his hands still gripping Ricky's shoulders. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Oh, do. I'd love that."

Ricky watched him continue on, smiling to himself, and Tinsley threw quick glances back over his shoulder at him every few steps, also smiling. Ricky waited until Tinsley was out of sight before he turned away, and he had to restrain himself from punching the air with glee. He had done it, he had done everything right, said everything right, and now the feeling of Tinsley's kiss was still on his lips and it would be there again soon. He wrapped Tinsley's scarf more cosily around his neck as he walked back toward his car. As he walked, two swans flew overhead, necks out straight and wings flapping slow and steady, and he suddenly felt envy like he'd never felt before. What he wouldn't do to take the one he loves and leave this place, leave all stress and worry and start anew. He watched the birds until they vanished beyond the buildings. Then he continued on to his car.


	20. A Thousand Times Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"We are all servants. The only question is whom we will serve."_ \- R. C. Sproul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda graphic imagery at the beginning, just thought i'd drop a warning  
> and later some nsfw y'all!!

The drink was flowing and the food was piled high on the plates that lined the table. Candelabras at regular intervals cast a warm, sickly glow. There was laughter, unpleasant. The Mayor didn't touch his plate; although he knew now wasn't the time, but he didn't want to risk anything.

He had never liked the Calvi family. They were rough and rude and their laughter was grating and they chewed with their mouths open. He accepted their slaps on the back with a forced smile. He knew they didn't like him either. His father had been American, and that wasn't acceptable in their eyes. Yet when he had turned up to the door and said he wished to discuss business, they had accepted. Everyone knew the Mayor. They knew what he had done, and what he was capable of doing. He was a useful asset, even if he was only half-Italian.

He told them how the Goldsworth family were dwindling, how their hold on the city was weakening. All that was left was Ricky, and the rest of the family were in hiding. He had offered them his services, and after some contemplation, they had accepted. Only a fool would pass up on the opportunity to get the Mayor on their side.

So here he sat at a celebratory business dinner. He was the only one sober. They condemned themselves in many ways; they spoke of how it was them who had attacked the library, and them who had spread the rumours about Ricky, and since Ricky had killed their son, he now had to die. That was to be the Mayor's first job. Avenge their son. Kill Ricky Goldsworth. The Mayor was relieved that they had condemned themselves so, but it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. The events were in motion, even if they had been innocent.

A waiter appeared at the Mayor's right shoulder, leaning over to fill up his glass with a wine so dark it was black. The Mayor went to raise his hand, to protest, but the low clearing of a throat made him stop. He spared a sidelong glance at the waiter - the man had dark eyes and dark hair and a smattering of freckles, and he seemed familiar. He had been at the fundraiser. This must be the one. The Mayor let his drink be filled, right to the top. He watched as the waiter did the round of the table, filling up glasses without any more protest. Then he vanished back to the kitchen, and it was like he hadn't appeared at all. The Mayor picked up his shining glass, raising it, and he forced some enthusiasm into his voice.

"May I propose a toast to a deal well made?"

The matriarch of the family smiled down the table at him, thin-lipped. He knew she didn't like him, and would eagerly dispose of him whenever the time came. "Of course."

He returned the smile, just as stiffly. The rest of the table had raised their glasses. "Then let us all drink deep."

They drank deep. Some more than others, but what mattered was that they got at least a mouthful into their bellies. The Mayor brought his glass to his mouth, if just to smell the bitter almond. Then he placed his glass down, the drink inside untouched. This got an odd look from the matriarch, her eyes narrowing as she swallowed her own mouthful.

"You didn't drink."

"I don't drink," came the Mayor's simple response.

There was a disgusted sound from the man beside him. "What in the world wine in this? It's revolting."

"Entirely," added another voice, also repulsed. "It's bitter. It must be gone off."

"Get that waiter-" A hacking cough. "Get that waiter back-" Another cough, again rough. "What is-"

The coughs were beginning to echo along the table, various confused looks on the family's faces. The Mayor lifted his gaze back to the matriarch, sidelong but steady. Her face was beginning to go pink as she coughed incessantly, a hand pressed to the bottom of her throat. Her eyes widened at him.

"What did you-" She spluttered. "What was in the wine?"

A smashing of cutlery against delph drowned out any possible answer as an uncle at the far end of the table collapsed off his chair, dragging half the tablecloth with him. He was swiftly joined by his wife. The Mayor got to his feet, wiping his hands on his napkin before leaning forward to finish his glass of water. Beside him came another crash, and a son lay on the ground, spasming, his face cherry red. The Mayor took his coat off the back of his chair and shrugged it on before leaving the altogether unpleasant noises of the room.

He went into the kitchen where the waiter stood alongside the puzzled chefs. He nodded at the back door, and the waiter opened it, and the Mayor leaned out over him and gave a single, slow wave of his hand. He heard the fizzle of a cigarette being snubbed out between the heel of a shoe and a damp pavement. Then the footsteps advanced toward him, and Lucy came into light.

"It's about time. The smell out here is unbelievable, to say the least." She stepped inside, drawing down the draping hood of her coat to let it settle about her shoulders. "Is it done?"

"Yes, _signora."_

"All of them?"

"You can check for yourself."

She took a slow stroll along the row of chefs and stopped at the waiter. She unclipped her purse and drew out a roll of bills tied with a rubber band. She handed it to him. "Thank you."

He nodded and quickly left out the back door. The chefs followed in a slightly frazzled row. The Mayor led her into the main room, where plates and knives and forks and food were scattered on the ground, along with bodies. They were already dressed in their finery, so at least the funerals would be quick. Lucy advanced toward the table, tip-toeing over sprawled limbs. She examined them as she passed. A few had vomit leaking from their mouths, blood from their noses. She smiled.

"And they let you in, just like that?"

The Mayor nodded. "Just like that."

She picked up the untouched glass of wine and cyanide that the Mayor had left, and turned to give a mocking toast. "To the gullibility of the proud."

The Mayor smiled. "Yes."

She placed the glass back down. "Get the gasoline from the kitchen."

When he returned with the canister she was holding a candelabra ready, impatient. He doused the table and the bodies; the stench of death was covered by the stinging smell of the liquid. They waited for a moment or two to make sure the gasoline had soaked in efficiently. Then Lucy laid the candelabra down with the flames of the three candles touching the edge of the nearest pool, and it was engulfed in seconds. She lingered for a moment to watch before letting the Mayor take her elbow and guide her out into the night.

* * *

"He seems like a new man."

"I'd say he feels like one too." Holly stopped outside the office door, looking at Banjo over the pile of folders in her arms. "I didn't expect him back to work so quickly, but he insisted."

"Some people cope like that, I suppose," said Banjo, his hands clasped, his round belly pride of place. "He should be on the case nonetheless."

"I don't think that's a good idea. I was going to drop him from the team."

Banjo's bushy brows shot up. "What? For whatever reason?"

"He's grown... close. To the Goldsworths." _Too close._

"Aren't we all a little too close?"

"Not as close as he is." She placed a hand on the door handle. "The murders last night were no doubt the Goldsworth's work. It all links up. It's undeniable. It would be safer not to have Tinsley on the team anymore."

"Well, we can't jump to conclusions, can we?"

"We most certainly can." She readjusted the folders in her arms. "Now, I do have work to do, so if you wouldn't mind."

She knew it had been Lucy. She knew, because when she came back to the apartment Lucy hadn't been there. Holly hadn't thought much of it at first, until a knock on the door at half four in the morning. It had been the Mayor. He was there to collect Lucy's things. She hadn't dared to refuse him entry, and so had stood by as he packed up her suitcase.

"What has she done."

The Mayor didn't answer. Holly narrowed her eyes at him as he zipped up the case. She repeated the question more firmly. He straightened up and turned to face her.

"You'll no doubt get a call about it soon. It's up to you then whether or not you wish to act."

"She doesn't have the guts to come herself and tell me what she's done. Instead she sends a henchman."

"So it seems." He smoothed down the lapels of his coat. He wasn't too fond of being called a henchman, in the same way a knight would disdain to be called a jester, a fool. "She also ordered me to prevent you from 'causing trouble', as she put it."

"Did she now?" Holly let out a bitter laugh. "I was a right idiot to even think for a moment that she wasn't going to throw my kindness back in my face. A right idiot."

"Yes, I suppose you were." He picked up the suitcase and gave her a nod. "Goodnight, Ms Horsley."

She tutted, but she didn't argue further."Goodnight."

"James," he said, at the door.

She gave him a puzzled look. "James?"

"Goodnight, James."

"Oh. Well." Holly opened the door for him, with a long pause afterwards. "Goodnight, James."

He smiled. "Goodnight, Ms Horsley."

She let him go. Because really, she had known. She had known right from the start that Lucy wasn't her friend, but Holly knew the saying well: _the enemy of my enemy is my friend._ So she had let Lucy stay and plan and scheme, and now it had been carried out. She had received the call the next morning; a whole family dead, at least eleven members, and then the evidence largely burned to a crisp. Holly wondered if Tinsley had known it was going to happen.

"Good morning," she said as she entered the office.

Tinsley smiled back at her; he was smiling a lot recently, content. "Good morning."

"How are you?"

"I'm good."

"I'm good too," said Darla airily. "Since you bothered to ask."

Holly ignored her. "There was a family murdered last night. Multiple homicide. Eleven members. There were traces of cyanide found in the wine glasses. The scene was burned afterward."

Tinsley stared at her in silence. His smile had gone. "Oh. What family?"

"The Calvis." Holly watched him subtly as she placed her work down on her desk. "It was most likely the Goldsworth's doing. Judging by their recent experiences with each other."

Tinsley didn't react for a moment. Then he nodded, slow. "Right."

"So I'm going to have to demand an entire cut-off of communication with them," she said, and it seemed like an awfully cruel sentence. Yet it had to be said. "For the duration of the investigation. This is on a larger scale than anything they've done before, and it needs to be treated with the respect due."

Tinsley had gone entirely pale. "Is- Is that necessary?"

"Entirely." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Will that be a problem?"

"...No. I don't- No."

Darla had stopped typing, her gaze fixed on Holly. She didn't seem too impressed. "Are you sure that's necessary?"

Holly ignored her. "If that's going to be an issue for anyone, I suggest saying so now."

Tinsley was quiet. He avoided both their gazes, one stern, the other pitying. When it appeared he wasn't going to talk, they slowly eased themselves back into their work. Tinsley sat at his desk and looked at his hands where they fidgeted on his lap. Then he stood up.

"I have to go for a few minutes."

He didn't wait around for permission. He grabbed his coat from the rack as he passed and was out the door in seconds. When his footsteps had vanished, Darla took her chair to face Holly.

"That was unnecessary."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about. You're not stupid."

Holly glared at her. "Watch your tongue."

"I said you're _not_ stupid." She folded her arms. "His wife just died and now you're trying to cut off communication with Ricky Goldsworth? Do you hate him or something?"

"I don't hate him. But it's necessary."

"Sometimes the fact that it's necessary isn't enough." Darla glanced over her shoulder at the door to make sure they were alone, but she whispered anyway. "You know that they're closer than close. You've seen how they act around each other."

"I have. And it endangers everyone. Including you."

Darla tutted, going back to her work. "I'd say leave well enough alone."

Holly threw a scowl at the back of her head. Then she went back to work.

* * *

Tinsley didn't use the tunnel. He was too panicked. He drove right up Ricky's driveway, skidding to a halt outside the doors. He was so stressed that he didn't take into account the fact that there were multiple other cars around. He took the steps two at a time, and the door was unlocked, allowing him to open it and step through in one fluid movement. The house seemed empty; his footsteps echoed as he crossed the hall to the closest room, which was Ricky' office. Tinsley ducked under the stairs, and in his urgency he didn't bother knocking.

Ricky was at his desk, standing around it with a some other figures. Tinsley only recognized Fran. Ricky looked at him with eyes childlike in their worry, but he swiftly disguised it, giving a simple nod to the others. They filed out, murmuring among themselves. Tinsley lingered in the doorway until the sound of the front door closing echoed. He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the tension making it stiff. He had to ask. He had to. The words were already sour on his tongue.

"...Did you-"

"I didn't do it. I didn't. But I don't know how to prove it. That's what I was trying to figure out." Ricky circled his desk, joining Tinsley out in the hallway, taking hold of his wrists, looking up at him with large eyes. "I swear I didn't kill them. I know I've done things before, but- but it's different now. I don't want to risk not having you. You know that. I wouldn't just throw this away, I wouldn't-"

"Ricky." Tinsley said the name calmly. "It's okay. I believe you."

"You do?"

"Yes. I do."

Ricky didn't seem to know how to respond for a moment. Then he simply leaned forward, shoulders slumping with relief as he rested his head against the taller man's chest. "Good. Good, I was driving myself insane thinking about what I'd do if you-"

"I still have bad news," said Tinsley, his gaze distant as he rested his chin on top of Ricky's head. "Holly wants all communication cut off. Between your family and our team."

Ricky didn't move for a long few minutes. When he spoke he sounded utterly defeated. "I'm sick of all of this. Sick to the death of it. And I used to think it was the most important thing in my life." He suddenly stepped away, raking a hand back through his hair. "I should have gone with them. I should have just gone with my family. I thought I was protecting them but all I've done is make myself realize I don't care about any of this. I don't care about my family's honour and respect and business and money and I just- I'd leave it all in a heartbeat. I miss them. I'd do anything to find them."

Tinsley's heart skipped a beat. "I'd go with you."

Ricky slowed in his pacing, and he looked at him side-on. "...You would?"

Tinsley nodded. "Yes."

"...And if I abandoned the hypothetical and said that tomorrow, at daybreak, I was going to pack what little I truly need in life and go to find my family, you'd come with me?"

Tinsley nodded again, even though his heart was racing. His voice shook, but he spoke anyway. "You once asked me when was the last time I did something completely crazy, when was the last time I did something that changed everything. Maybe this could be it. Maybe it's now."

Ricky stared at him in wide-eyed silence. “But- But your job. Your house. Your-”

“I don’t care. I’d leave it.”

Ricky swallowed. “For me?”

 _“Yes._ Yes, of course for you. Because I-” He went quiet, fumbling to try and convey how willing he was to leave everything behind for the only true love he had ever known. Words weren't enough. He got down on one knee, slow, and he took hold of Ricky’s hand tight. With closed eyes and a bowed head he pressed a kiss his ring, with its proud insignia. He knew what such an act meant, and he would willingly face any consequences. He'd grovel and crawl and beg. He give everything he owned. He kept his eyes closed as he whispered the words against Ricky's skin. “...I’d do anything for you, Ricky.”

Ricky didn’t respond straight away. He was stunned, his eyes wide, watery. He had seen the heads of so many families kiss that ring over the years, both when it was his father’s and when it was his, but none had struck him like this. His heart felt like it was going to crack. “Tinsley…”

He felt the grip tighten on his hand, desperate. “Don’t say no. Don’t. Please.”

Ricky shook his head, and he realized he could barely speak, tears were threatening to flow. So he just ducked down and kissed the other man hard, a hand slipping around the back of his head, fingers curling through his hair. He broke off to tearfully say: “Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes. Come with me.”

“Really?”

“Really. Really and truly.”

Tinsley felt Ricky’s hand cup his jaw, guiding him back to his feet before drawing him down into another kiss, fiercely passionate. Tinsley let himself be completely overcome with the sensation, his brows drawing up and together, helpless, and when Ricky broke away it felt like falling from the sky and back to earth. He opened his eyes and Ricky was watching him with eyes still tearful. Ricky kissed him again, slower this time, although no less passionate than the previous. He felt Tinsley’s hands rest on his shoulders, and they were weak. He was kissing him back with a soft curiosity, but was entirely submissive to whatever movement Ricky decided upon. Ricky let their mouths drift apart, his gaze remaining on Tinsley’s parted lips, and he took hold of him by his tie and led him into his office, closing the door behind them before pressing Tinsley back against it and pushing up on his tip-toes to kiss him again, hard. Tinsley’s knees almost went with the overwhelming sensation of Ricky’s lips on his, Ricky’s hands on his chest, but he steadied himself, hands gripping Ricky’s sides. He let himself be guided to the couch, and he sat down, his heart racing as Ricky straddled him determinedly, settling close against him. Tinsley felt Ricky’s fingers on the side of his neck, thumb under his chin as his head was pushed back to a better angle. He swallowed, eyes closed, his lips still parted, waiting. Ricky captured him in a hungry kiss, setting his hips more firmly against Tinsley’s. He felt Tinsley’s hands on his back, running up to his shoulders and back down to his waist before gripping his hips. Yet he didn’t fight for control of the situation. He gladly let himself be on the receiving end of Ricky’s kisses, let his tie be undone and tossed aside, let his shirt be unbuttoned to his chest for Ricky’s lips to explore. Tinsley could hardly withstand the feeling, his breaths panted, a hand tangled in Ricky’s curls as the man pressed warm kisses along his neck, trailing along his collarbone, breaking off to kiss him on the mouth again. Ricky took control of the situation, effortlessly, inevitably, and he unbuckled Tinsley’s belt, slipping a hand into his trousers, relieved to find that he was hard. He stopped kissing him, and he searched Tinsley's eyes for even the slightest bit of hesitance; there was nothing there but the warmest love, with the same benediction and devotion as a layman at an altar. Ricky felt the gentle but firm grip on his wrist, and Tinsley's mouth didn't stray an inch from Ricky's as he guided the man's hand further into his trousers. Ricky didn't need any more encouragement; he'd been waiting an eternity already. He kissed Tinsley, again, soft but strong, hearing the shaky exhale from him, a breathy touch of a moan echoing it. His mouth moved down to the side of Tinsley's neck, just under the end of his jaw, his hand cupping the opposite side of Tinsley's face, holding him as still as was necessary. Tinsley's hips gave the smallest of shifts, his hands gripping Ricky's waist, his head tilted back to bare his throat as Ricky kissed it. It was the closest thing to heaven he had known for a long, long time.

His heavy-lidded eyes followed Ricky as the man moved back so that he was kneeling between Tinsley's legs. Ricky's hands ran down his thighs, pushing them apart, his dark eyes heated as he watched Tinsley from under his lashes. Tinsley swallowed at the lascivious look, his hands pressed to the couch either side of him. He hadn't felt the need for anything like this in years, yet now nothing existed of the world except this room, and the sight of Ricky kneeling in front of him. He gladly let the image be branded into his mind. Ricky tried to stem his impatience, tried not to be overwhelming in his need as he tugged Tinsley's underwear down off his hips, and took him in his mouth, slow at first. He heard the light, sharp exhale at the sensation, felt the fingers run through his hair to take a handful. Tinsley watched for a few minutes, his mouth parted as he panted for air, his hand resting on the back of Ricky's head as it rose and fell and rose and fell. His heart skipped in his chest, his breath quickening. He rested his head back against the couch, his eyes fluttered closed, one hand still entangled in Ricky's dark hair, the other gripping Ricky's hand where it rested against the outside of his thigh.

"Fuck," he breathed, before inhaling sharply through his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure spiked through him. His hand let go of Ricky's and grabbed the back of the couch beside his head, fingers digging into the fabric. _"Fuck."_

He had never felt pleasure like it, and Ricky was a selfless lover, entirely focused on him, everything was for him. In a way, Ricky wanted to make a good impression, a lasting one; _this is what you've been missing, and this is what you'll be in for if you stay with me._ Tinsley covered his eyes with his hand, his mouth open, breaths firing in and out, and once the moans started he bit on his hand to stay quiet, hard enough to leave teeth marks in his skin. Ricky built him up slow but steady, his hands pushing up Tinsley's thighs, and he heard the harsh, shuddered moan as Tinsley finished, although there wasn't much warning other than that. Ricky swallowed a tad messily, sitting back on his knees and wiping a hand over his mouth. He moved his jaw from side to side, a hand holding it; it was aching, due to the fact that, well, everything was in proportion. Then he smiled a smug smile.

"Did you like that?"

Tinsley nodded weakly, still breathless, his eyes heavy. "Yes."

Ricky stood up, stretching leisurely before linking his hands behind his head. "So there's no doubts left in your mind now as to what you want?"

Tinsley shook his head, fixing his trousers. "I definitely want that."

Ricky rested a hand on the back of the couch as he leaned in to kiss him on the lips. "I-"

The door was abruptly knocked up and opened almost instantly after. "Are you done... yet..."

Francesca stood in the doorway, a hand still on the door. She stared at Ricky, who stared back with wide eyes and an open mouth, still leaning over Tinsley. She stared at Tinsley, who was midway through buckling his belt, but had yet to do up his shirt or fix his hair or wipe the light sweat off his face. Not a breath was drawn in the room. Fran dropped her gaze, suddenly very thoughtful altogether, like someone who had just been told the meaning of life but now realized there was nothing to be done about it.

"...Oh."

Ricky straightened up, his face growing scarlet. _"Ciao."_

"I was just... What we were talking about..." She breathed in through her teeth. She looked at Tinsley again, who was still sat on the couch, a hand holding his shirt closed across his chest, his mouth pressed in a line. "I can come back in a bit."

"No. No, wait." Ricky ushered her outside to give Tinsley some privacy. "If I left, what would you do?"

Fran laughed out loud. "Oh, take my money and do whatever the hell I wanted."

"Then I'd suggest you plan whatever it is you might want to do." He took a deep breath. "I'm leaving. In the morning. I'm going to find my family."

She stared at him in dumbfounded silence. "You're what?"

"I'm leaving this city. I'm leaving everything behind. I don't want to do this. I don't want to live like this, always making sure people aren't lying to me, or betraying me, it's not worth it." He searched her eyes, pleading. "I want to be with the people I love. That's all I want."

Fran's mouth moved into a kind, sad smile. "I know. I know that's what you've always, always wanted. And really, I expected this day would come. And Ricky-" She placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "-you once said that I'm your _consigliere_ before I'm your friend, and I didn't believe it for a second. It's not true. I'm your friend, first and foremost, and I want you to be happy."

He smiled tearfully. "Thank you."

She kissed him on both cheeks before stepping back, a hand still cupping his face. "You do whatever you feel will make you happy, and I'll do the same for me." Her brows raised. "When are you thinking of leaving?"

"In the morning. Before the sun rises."

"Then I'll plan accordingly."

"Will you stay in the city?"

"No. No, I've always wanted to go to New York, to be honest. I've never been given the chance."

Ricky gave her a determined smile. "Then someday in the future I'll look for you there."

She gave his hand a squeeze. _"Alla prossima,_ Ricky. I wish you all the luck in the world."

Ricky nodded, and although the tears were threatening to flow, he was happy. He walked her to the door, and watched her get into her car, and she waved at him and he waved back. He stood at the door until her car was out of sight. Then he headed back inside, and into his office. Tinsley had tidied himself up considerably.

"Well?"

"Well." Ricky smiled at him. "I need to pack."

An excited smile pulled at Tinsley's mouth. "We're going? Really?"

"Really." He hurried out the door and took the stairs two at a time, hearing Tinsley swiftly follow. "We'll take my car. I'll pack some stuff and then we'll go to yours and you can throw some things together and then we'll go." He suddenly turned with a sweeping hand. "Out of this place. Away from it all. Imagine how we'll feel! Ecstatic!"

Tinsley followed him down the hall to his room. They were rushing, the adrenaline high. "You know, I always knew you'd turn my life upside-down. I just didn't expect it to feel so good."

Ricky bounded up to him and wrapped his arms around his neck to kiss him with fresh vigor. "Help me pack. And then we'll get out of here."

He couldn't reply quick enough. "Sure. Yes. Of course." A deep breath. "Let's do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ricky and tinsley: kiss once (one time)  
> also ricky and tinsley: let'd abandon our former lives and run away together


	21. Sleep on the Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Forget what Father Brennan said_   
>  _We were not born in sin_   
>  _Leave a note on your bed_   
>  _Let your mother know you're safe_   
>  _And by the time she wakes_   
>  _We'll have driven through the state_   
>  _We'll have driven through the night_   
>  _Baby, come on."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a short chapter but the next one is ;) much longer ;) and also worth a little bit of a wait ;) ;)

"Oh, I swear I can't find it anywhere!" Banjo's voice was muffled from under his desk. "I thought it would have turned up by now but it's vanished from the world! I feel like I'm in an episode of The Twilight Zone." His head reappeared, his police chief hat at a jaunty angle on his head. "Have you watched that yet? It started running at the beginning of October, and it's marvelous! It has-"

"I don't care, Bernard!" Holly let out a sharp sigh. "Tinsley hasn't been seen for days now. Three days. No one has any idea where he is. None of his usual coffee shops have seen him. His car hasn't been in his driveway. He's bloody vanished, for God's sake, listen to me!"

Banjo sat back down in his office chair like a child being scolded. "Well... Have you filed a missing persons report?"

"Are you being serious with me right now."

The sound of heels clicking against lino interrupted their conversation that hadn't really been a conversation; for the last five minutes they had been conversing more with themselves than with each other, voicing panicked thoughts aloud. Darla stuck her head in the doorway to Banjo's office, her cheeks reddened from her dash from their offices to the station the next block over.

"Holly? Holly, there you are. Christ." She took a moment to catch her breath. "I have to-"

"Why did you run over here?" demanded Holly. "You could have just rang."

"No, no, I couldn't have gone through the switchboards." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Lucy is in our offices. She wants to talk to you. And it's im-por-tant." She mouthed the last word.

The second Holly got back to her offices she launched into a heated torrent of words. "Lucy, you traitorous little-"

Lucy cut her off with a sudden furious shout. "WHERE IS MY SON?"

Holly stared at her for a moment, her face frozen mid-talk. "Excuse me?"

"Ricardo has not been seen in _three days._ Neither him nor Francesca. No one knows where they've gone. I've called his house every day, morning noon and night. I've called over an innumerable amount of times and he _isn't there_. If you have him in custody, if you've thrown him in prison I'll-"

"Three days." Holly repeated the words numbly. "Three days."

"Yes, that is what I said. So-"

"Tinsley hasn't been into work for the past three days. Won't answer phone calls either. No lights on at home. Darla called over a few times and no answer. Car's missing."

Lucy's eyes sharpened. "What kind of car does Tinsley have."

"I don't know. I just know it's silver."

"Silver." Lucy crossed the room to the phone and spun in a number as if she was in her own office and not Holly's. She snapped something in Italian, impatient. Then she listened. When she hung up, she turned back to Holly. "There's a silver car in Ricardo's driveway, and it's not his own. His own one is gone."

The silence settled in as uneasily as a blanket over a bed of needles. Holly blinked a few times as if rebooting.

"No. No, they wouldn't have."

"I told you before," said Lucy, shakily. It was impossible to tell whether it was anger or panic. "I told you before, Ricardo doesn't love in halves. He would do it without a heartbeat."

"In a heartbeat."

"Now isn't the time for stupid corrections," snapped Lucy. "They have run away. To God knows where. I thought he might be kidding around, but look at what he sent me."

Holly stared at the piece of paper that was slapped into her hand. She unfolded it, studying the elegant scrawl. "I can't read this. It's in Italian."

"Oh for God's sake. It says that he didn't know I was here, and that he's gone to find Isabella. He didn't say Tinsley was with him."

"He couldn't. And we both know why he couldn't." She shook her head. "They're involved with each other. Romantically. And they have been for a while now. I bloody knew it."

"We should have kept them in line. We should have been more strict."

"Who are we to get involved?" Holly crossed to her desk, rearranging some files, just to give herself something to do, just to give her brain something to focus on. "Maybe we should let them be."

"Tinsley may be just your employee, but Ricardo is my son. I'm worried sick." Lucy accepted the cup of coffee passed to her, but didn't quite seem to notice. "I won't be able to sleep at night until I know he's safe. What if I never hear of him again? Isabella and now Ricardo? I can't. I can't live my life without knowing where they are, how they are. It sickens me to just think about it."

Holly waited. She knew what was coming next.

"Holly. Can I please get one, one last favour from you?"

* * *

The days went by in a blur, the road and sky aligned.

The air was cold in the window, but it wasn't harsh. Ricky was driving at a leisurely pace, one hand lightly holding the steering wheel steady, his other wrist draped out the window where his cigarette flickered in the slowly-descending dusk. Tinsley's scarf fluttered around his neck, like a dame's headscarf in a movie. He cast a glance at the passenger seat, where Tinsley sat with his own cigarette, a book held open on his lap. They had been quiet for the last hour or so, but it was comfortable. Ricky felt a surge of warmth in him whenever he realized that this wasn't a dream; he really was driving away from the stress in his life, and Tinsley really was beside him, the cool wind playing with his hair, ruffling it, giving him a boyish look, and his lowered gaze following the letters in his lap. Ricky took a pull on his cigarette before speaking.

"What are you reading?"

Tinsley took a moment to reply, placing his finger down on the sentence he had finished so that he wouldn't lose his place. _"The Price of Salt._ By Claire Morgan."

Ricky raised an eyebrow at the playful smile on the other man's face. "Well, you're obviously dying to tell me what it's about. So what is it about?"

"It's about two women who fall in love, and they run away from their problems by going on a long road trip."

"Oh, I _see._ How original." He grinned, rolling up his window and stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray between them. "And what happens on their road trip, hm?"

Tinsley didn't respond straight away. He looked back down at the book. "They admit that they're in love with each other. And they... become intimate."

Ricky gave him a sidelong look. "I see."

Tinsley closed the book over, resting his hands on it, fingers fidgeting with each other. His face was beginning to warm just a tad. "I do want to do that. Too. With you. Fully."

"Of course. I do too. But it's your choice as to when you want to."

"I have a vague understanding of how it works." Tinsley shrugged his shoulders. "But I think we should talk about it. Before we do anything."

Ricky smiled; it was always pleasant to notice how Tinsley was becoming more sure of himself, more ready to say what he wanted. "What aspect would you like to talk about?"

"...I'm aware that there's- there's, uh, a giver and a receiver?"

Ricky laughed. "Yes. Yes, there is. The majority of the time."

Tinsley had gone entirely red, but he was battling through it. "...What are you?"

Ricky grinned at him, very much entertained. "What am I? Guess."

"Guess?"

"Yes."

Tinsley pondered it; Ricky had the ability to be both surprisingly cutesy one moment and then be fierce as bedamned the next. "Well, I'll be honest and say I have no idea."

Ricky smiled at this. "If you _must_ know, I'm both. It depends on who I'm with." Then he reached over, placing a hand on Tinsley's knee. "But I want you to know I wouldn't do anything you're uncomfortable with."

Tinsley smiled back. "I know you wouldn't."

"Have you thought about it much?"

"Yes. Yes, I've thought about it a lot."

"Me too. So that's a good sign." Ricky checked his watch, squinting at it in the dimming light from outside. He yawned, blinking a few times to steady his vision. "We should stop soon. At the next motel, perhaps."

"Do you want me to drive for a while?"

"Yes. That would be great."

They pulled over for a quick stretch of the legs and to swap over. Ricky took Banjo's briefcase from behind the driver's seat and flicked it open, staring at the five train ticket stubs again. One adult, three children. One-way to Oregon. He had noticed the single adult ticket immediately, earlier that day.

It hadn't been their first argument - their very first conversations had been arguments, after all - but this one had been different. They shouted over each other in the car, and Ricky had grown so infuriated he had to pull over, where the shouting continued. He had never heard Tinsley shout before. He had never heard his voice rise above a casual tone. It was oddly exhilarating.

"She threatened my life!" Tinsley raised his hands to the heavens. "She said she'd throw me into a lake with goddamn concrete shoes!"

"You should have told me anyway! I would have kept it secret but you should have-"

"That's a bare-faced lie. You would've acted instantly."

Ricky sat back into his seat, raking his hands back through his hair. "I can't believe you didn't tell me she was in the city. I can't believe it. I can't believe you'd do that."

"Ricky, I had very, _very_ little to do with it. My job was to drop her off at Holly's and then leave. That was it. There was no conspiring behind your back."

"You should have told me."

"Ricky, I-"

"You should have told me!"

"Fine! I should have told you and I didn't! What now? We turn around and go home because you're inevitably going to throw a tantrum? Maybe we'll make it a couple of hundred miles until you finally sit back and think about what you're doing? Hm?"

Ricky pressed his lips in a line, glaring at him sidelong. He was indeed struggling to withhold a momentous tantrum. "I'm not going to throw a tantrum."

"You are. I can see it."

"I'm _not."_ Ricky turned his head away to glare out the window at the forests where they stretched on and on until they rose over a few hills and vanished down the other side. He let his eyes follow two swans flying in a direct line across the crisp blue sky. After a few minutes he said: "I'm really angry with you."

"Ricky, don't be. Please."

"Then explain why you didn't tell me." Ricky finally turn his head back to look at Tinsley, a sternness in his eyes. "Explain it to me."

"Because I knew you'd do something reckless. I knew you'd act impulsively and put yourself and your mom in danger. Lucy is well-versed in schemes, Ricky, she knew what she was doing, but if you got yourself entangled in it I just-" He sighed heavily, resting an elbow on the door and his head in his hand, covering his eyes. Weary. "I just kept imagining these awful scenarios where something like what happened at the library happened again but this time you didn't come out alive. Perhaps I was just being dramatic but, at the same time, maybe I was right. It made sense in my head at the time. It still makes sense. I don't know."

Ricky lowered his gaze back to the steering wheel, arms still folded across his chest. "I would have gone to see her before we left. That's all."

"Then you definitely would have been implicated in what she did. She killed the Calvis. We both know that."

"I know." He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. "I'm just annoyed. Frustrated. I will be for a while. I just have to think."

So he had thought, and he realized that he wouldn't give up what he had with Tinsley for anything. Tinsley had been right, after all; Lucy was the queen of schemes, and she would find her way to her family somehow.

At the next small gathering of stores Ricky wrote a quick letter to her, just to let her know he was safe.

* * *

The diner they stopped at the first day wasn't anything flashy; _Sal's Diner_ lay in large red block letters at the top of the entrance, from which wafted the delicious smell of greasy food that was only truly appetizing when one had been driving for countless hours along flat, endless roads. They pulled into a spot, the engine whining to silence. Ricky got out of the car and opened the back door, reaching into one of the bags stuffed to the brim with cash; he'd withdrawn as much of his money as he could fit into the bag, just with a quick call to a Mr Jesse Fear from BankAtlantic. No questions asked, guaranteed. He squinted over the cash bags at the other suitcase, which was barely being held closed with its struggling zip.

"Did you really need to bring _all_ those books?"

Tinsley folded his arms. "Stop asking me that. The answer is yes."

Ricky rolled his eyes, closing the door.

The bell tinkled as they went in the door, Ricky first and Tinsley behind him. Ricky went right up to the counter like he owned the place, a beaming smile on his face at the man behind the counter. The man returned it as Ricky said: _"Ciao, amico mio!"_

Tinsley stood aside as the two men began conversing in Italian as if they'd known each other for years. The man's name badge read _Salvatore._ He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with a balding head and a thick moustache, and he was skinny enough that the belt of his apron was wrapped twice around in order to be knotted without trailing on the floor. He was holding two cups of coffee, which Ricky pointed at in talking, and the man nodded and said something back, and Ricky was subsequently satisfied. Sal nodded at Tinsley, and all Tinsley could pick out were the words _Americano alto,_ which he heard frequently around Ricky and his friends and family. Only when they were sat down in a booth did Tinsley ask what it meant.

"Tall American," said Ricky with a grin. "That's what you're referred to as, a lot of the time. Tinsley the tall American."

Tinsley couldn't exactly argue with the nickname. There wasn't anything inaccurate about it, he supposed. Sal ended up having a spare bed and a spare couch, where he and his wife lived at the back of the diner. He was very eager for Ricky and the tall American to stay, he insisted upon it. Ricky and Tinsley slept in separate rooms (the former in the bed, the latter on the couch) and they didn't think of much else but each other.

* * *

The second night they stayed in a motel. It was plain but sturdy. The girl at the reception gave them a room with two single beds. They didn't argue. They couldn't.

It was a simple room; a hardwood floor with a threading rug on it, a few mediocre paintings on the walls, of fields, and flowers. The single beds were either side of a nightstand, on which there was an alarm clock, a lamp with a conical shade, and a radio. There was a small table with two chairs and on it an ashtray, an assortment of packet coffees and small potted milks, and a travel-sized kettle. Nothing fancy. It was perfect.

Tinsley organized their suitcases by the door as Ricky fiddled with the stations. They slid from static to clarity and back again. Tinsley stashed the bags of money in the bottom of the wardrobe, making a temporary lock out of his belt, wrapping and buckling it around the handles of the wardrobe doors. It had started to rain outside, a gentle murmur against the single window. Outside the sky was violet, and the creeping clouds were black. The room had a most gentle wash of colour over it, a hue of swiftly-darkening lilac. Every now and then a car whirred by on the wet road. Tinsley closed the curtains. Ricky turned on the lamp. It added a soft golden glow to the room. Tinsley accepted a cigarette from the other man, leaning down to let Ricky light it for him too. Then they sat at the small coffee table provided and chatted for a few hours, until they had to whisper for fear of anyone else being awake. Tinsley boiled the small kettle and made them each a coffee in the paper cups provided. It wasn't very tasty but it didn't matter. They were quiet for a while; Tinsley read his book, and Ricky was content with watching him. The radio presenter's voice introduced the song coming up. _And now, on this late lonely night, we have the one and only Dean Martin, with his hit 'That's Amore'. I hope it is, for you folks out there._ Ricky couldn't help but smile.

"Does this song bring back any memories for you?"

Tinsley looked up from his book and listened. "Oh, I think it does. Was it that night you were oh-so-protective over your sister?"

Ricky gave him a flat look. "You know why I acted the way I did."

"Were you jealous of the fact I danced with your sister?"

"Incalculably."

Tinsley smiled, teasing. "That's cute."

"It wasn't cute! I was a disaster. It was embarrassing."

"It doesn't matter." He reached across the table to take hold of Ricky's hand. "Here we are anyway."

Ricky kept his eyes on their hands, running his thumb over Tinsley's knuckles. "...I never did get my dance."

The song was fading from the jovial tones of Dean Martin to a croonier melody, as if they were somehow being listened to. Tinsley placed his book aside, keeping a hold of Ricky's hand as he guided him to his feet, and although he meant it to be playful, funny, he couldn't stop the sudden overwhelming warmth in his chest, the blizzard of butterflies in his stomach. He swallowed, his mouth dry.

"Do you know how to dance?"

"Do I know? Do _you?"_

"A bit." He placed a hand on Ricky's back, holding his other hand aside, palm up. "Whenever you're ready, sir."

Ricky forgot to laugh. He had wanted a moment like this his entire life, and he almost felt out-of-body as he placed his hand in Tinsley's, his eyes watching carefully, making sure his memory of it would be as clear as possible. He placed his other hand on Tinsley's shoulder, and rested his head against his chest, all too happy to let Tinsley lead them in slow, drifting circles. He smiled to himself.

"Your heart is palpitating."

Tinsley swallowed again. "Is it?"

"Madly."

"I have no idea why that would be."

Ricky tilted his head back to look up at him, resting his arms over Tinsley's shoulders, wrists draped over each other at the back of his neck. They had come to a halt, still holding each other close, and Tinsley had the sweetest realization that there was nothing stopping him in this moment from kissing the other man, so he did, without hesitation, without fear. It started soft and rapidly grew heavier, and they spent the night pressed close on one of the beds, hands running free. The next morning Ricky tossed the sheets back on the other bed, just in case suspicions were aroused. Tall man with pointy nose and short Italian man were identifiable enough as it were. 'Occasionally share a bed' would just be a glowing target on their backs, in case they were being followed. In case.

* * *

Ricky spread the map on the bonnet of the car. They had picked it up in a roadside store that sold magnets and postcards and bottles of rye. Ricky had bought one of them too, and a cup of coffee each, and two sandwiches, which they were now eating as they studied the map. They were wrapped up in their coats, gloves on. The days were swiftly descending into wintry coolness. It had snowed for a minute or two the night before, but had melted by morning. Soon it wouldn't be melting anymore.

"Oregon's a hell of a drive," said Tinsley around his mouthful. "And where will we even go once we get there?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe we'd get there first, but now I don't know if we'll have time before the real snow starts." Ricky looked up at him. "Do you think we'll be followed?"

"I don't think _I'll_ be. But I have a feeling you might be."

"Me too." Ricky sighed heavily. "My mom always said that this job isn't a job I can retire from, that it retires me when it's done with me. She said it's the same for everyone."

Tinsley placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Don't think like that, hon. Let's just keep moving forward." Then he looked at the map again. "But I was thinking about the tickets. They were train tickets, right?"

"Yes. To Medford."

"Well, if we continue on to Chicago, we could get a train from there. The same one." Tinsley shrugged. "We might get lucky. Maybe the conductor will remember them, or a steward or something. And also, we can ditch the car."

Ricky took a mouthful of coffee in an attempt to warm himself up somewhat. "I suppose that's a good idea. I was trying to avoid ditching the car because we'd make better time with it, but it's safer, isn't it."

"I think so."

"You're from there, aren't you? With those revolting deep dish pizzas."

"Chicago born and bred, I'm afraid."

Ricky grinned. "Chic- _aaa-_ go."

"I don't say it like that!"

"You do a little tiny bit."

Tinsley raised his brows at him. "And what about you, hm?" He raised a hand, thumb and index finger touching as he gestured with it. "Ay ma, where's da pizza, eh? Fuggehda-boud-it!"

Ricky gave him a long flat look. "Offensive."

"What?! How is it-"

Ricky turned his nose up, moving back around the car. "I'm upset now. You can drive."

* * *

They had driven all night, just them and their headlights and the very occasional passer-by. The pines towered either side of them, like some ancient guardians glaring at this ugly tarmac path plowing through their land. Ricky seemed distracted. A cigarette was smoking in his hand, but he rarely put it to his mouth. Tinsley reached over to place a hand on his knee, gently getting his attention.

"What's on your mind, hon?"

Ricky smiled at the endearment. He wondered if Tinsley had even noticed it becoming a regular into his vocabulary. If not, it was the most pleasant slip of the tongue Ricky had ever heard. He looked away from Tinsley and back at the side mirror.

"I didn't want to say anything. I don't know if I'm being paranoid."

Tinsley's brows drew together in a frown. He readjusted the rear view mirror. There were headlights far behind them, at a bend in the road they had been at five minutes ago. The headlights flickered through trees, vanishing into darkness for a while before reappearing all of a sudden, over and over. "How long have they been behind us?"

"For the last hour or so." Ricky tapped the ash off the tip of his cigarette, distractedly. "And it's stayed at that distance. It's far enough behind that it's not obvious, but close enough that it isn't losing sight of us."

Tinsley didn't know how to respond. He didn't exactly have experience in this sort of thing. "Well, I guess it is just this one road for a while. There's no turn off for them."

"...So we wait until the next turn and see if they still follow?"

"Yes. I think so." Tinsley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Has anything like this happened to you before?"

"Yes. Once or twice."

"And what do you usually do?"

"Drive much, much faster than you're driving right now."

"Of course. I don't know what else I expected you to say, really." Tinsley sped up just a little. "You brought a gun or two, didn't you?"

"Yes."

* * *

They stopped at the next gas station. Ricky stayed outside and filled up the car, seeing as he was less visibly noticeable than Tinsley, who disappeared inside to get cigarettes. The bell tinkled, solitary. The lights were dull, one or two flickering. The man behind the till watched him with red, tired eyes and a mouthful of gum. He chewed loudly. _Smack, smack, smack,_ a hand flipping through a newspaper on the counter.Tinsley bought the cigarettes and paid for the fuel, counting out the cash as he worked up the courage to ask the grumpy clerk a single question.

"You know how much further until the next motel?"

 _Smack._ "Not another from here to Illinois, big fella."

Tinsley pressed his lips together in a weak smile. "Great."

"If you're tired I could hook you and your pal up. Gotta spare bed or two for a couple of hours work in the mornin'."

It would have been a tempting offer, if Tinsley had wanted to wake up in the morning with half his organs missing. "...I think we'll pass."

A shrug and another loud _smack_ of gum. "Sure thing. Looks like you got big bucks anyway, huh? You don't look like a rich guy."

Tinsley closed his wallet up quick-sharp. The clerk's watery blue eyes glinted. "Thanks. Goodbye."

The clerk turned the newspaper around, tapping an article. "You ever heard of a Ricardo Garafalo? Don of some mafia in a town few hours drive east. At large. Last seen headin' west. In the company of a tall American fella." A slimy smile. "The world's gettin' dangerous nowadays, isn't it? All sorts out on the road."

Tinsley gave him a long look, unwavering. "You have no idea."

When he joined Ricky out in the car, he immediately urged him to drive. Ricky did so without hesitance, their headlights swiping back out onto the black road, the wheel spinning in his hand.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You look shook up."

"We're in the goddamn papers, that's what."

"What?!"

"Well, you are. I'm mentioned as an- an accomplice of sorts."

 _"Figlio di puttana."_ Ricky swallowed hard, flexing his fingers on the wheel. "Well if it's any consolation, that other car passed by without even slowing."

Tinsley fumbled a fresh cigarette from a packet, lighting it himself before passing it to Ricky. Then he lit one for himself. "You can drive until we get to the next place we can sleep. The clerk said they're isn't another place until we get into Illinois. So another hour or so. And once we're into Chicago..." He went quiet for a moment. "I think I have a place we can stay for a day or two. Out of the way."

Ricky gave him a sidelong look. "I know you're probably still a bit of a cop at heart, but how do you feel about speeding?"

"God, Ricky. Floor it."


	22. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Then Carol slipped her arm under her neck, and all the length of their bodies touched fitting as if something had prearranged it. Happiness was like a green vine spreading through her, stretching fine tendrils, bearing flowers through her flesh. She had a vision of a pale white flower, shimmering as if seen in darkness, or through water. Why did people talk of heaven, she wondered."_ \- The Price of Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a nice big long chapter
> 
> with nsfw !!

It was snowing, and it was snowing hard, fat flakes dropping from the sky rather than floating. Tinsley was driving, both gloved hands on the wheel, his eyes narrowed against the snow being slapped back and forth by the windscreen wipers. He had known the snow was coming. When they'd stopped to stretch their legs, he had stood like an old farmer over his land and muttered "snow's coming". He'd stopped at the nearest grocery store on the way, and got some basics, like it was a natural reflex to stock up for a particularly snowy night.

Ricky bit on the edge of his coffee cup, wishing it was still filled with warming coffee. "I've never seen this much snow before."

"Don't you just hate it," muttered Tinsley.

"No, I think it's very pretty."

"Well, just wait until you're out in it." He slowed to narrow his eyes at a sign post that was hardly visible through the whipping snow, and he took the next right. "But every rose has its thorns, hm?"

Ricky just nodded, content to watch the wintry world out the window. They were in some suburb area, with small, mismatched houses, windows glowing through the snow like beacons. "Nonnina lives in South Side. I think she shacks up with someone from the Outfit. They keep her hidden."

"The Outfit? As in the Chicago Outfit?"

"Yes."

"Wow. I didn't know your family would associate with them."

"Oh, we don't. The Outfit is _miles_ above us." Ricky was picking at the paper cup in his hand, distracted. "My family is relatively small, you know. Our territory and our activities. There's some bad, bad guys out there. Slaughtering each other in the street during Prohibition, like animals. All for money."

Tinsley knew. He'd seen the newspaper articles on the modern-day guerrilla warfare. "And have you ever met Johnny Torrio? Or Al Capone? Or-"

"Are you serious? No! And I don't want to!" Ricky laughed in disbelief. "After that massacre on Saint Valentine's Day? Never. And we didn't want them to know about some of the people working for us. Fran is half-Italian half-Kenyan, and the Mayor is half-Italian half-Welsh. It's too risky to let them be found out. Capone and Torrio killed that half-Irish guy O'Banion for no other reason than he was half and half."

Tinsley knew how it worked; associates could be whatever they were, but made men had to be Italian, born and bred. "Then how does Nonnina know them?"

"Oh, she's always had her questionable friends." He glanced out the window again. “Well… If we were desperate we could stay, but I don't think they'd react to you very well at all. At all at all."

Tinsley laughed. "Oh Ricky, Ricky, wherefore art thou Ricky? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or, if you will not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a cop."

"Ha ha. Droll."

He let his smile dwindle away. The prospect of staying with Nonnina wasn’t one he was particularly excited about, and he knew for a fact Tinsley would be lucky to be turned away in one piece. He turned to look at Tinsley, who had grown increasingly quiet over the last few minutes, until he was silent, entirely, his eyes unblinking as he looked at the street, shoulders hunched as he drove. He slowed to a halt in the snow, taking his keys from his pocket and rifling through them until he found one that seemed to strike some chord in him.

“I think I know a place we could stay,” he murmured. He looked back out the window. “Okay. Let's go."

They cruised along slowly through the swiftly-growing snow drifts, down street after street of sweet homes, until they reached a dead end, the road cutting off before a grand expanse of white-blanketed grass. Tinsley cut the engine.

“What is it?” asked Ricky after a few minute’s silence.

Tinsley hesitated, his hands fidgeting on his lap, shaking ever so slightly. They only calmed when Ricky’s own hand reached over to lay on top of them. Tinsley looked at him for the longest time, the vulnerability crisp and clear. Then he said: “Follow me.”

Ricky nodded. What else would he follow?

Tinsley led him up the path to a house, crunching through the snow; even from the outside it was warm and inviting. Then again, anything would have been warm and inviting in that weather. The letterbox had no post. There was a sweet little sign in the blooming flower pot by the door; _Love grows here._ Ricky reached out a hand to the flower; it was only beginning to wilt under the snow.

“These are looked after well,” he commented through his chattering teeth. "They're only dying now."

When he didn’t get a reply, he looked at Tinsley, who was standing under the covered porch at the door with his arms by his sides, his keys dangling from his right hand. Ricky went up behind him, taking hold of his free hand in both of his own. He knew, even from the side of his face, that there was something tremendously heavy on his mind.

“Who lives here?” asked Ricky gently.

“I lived here.” Tinsley’s voice was quiet. “This is where I grew up.”

“Oh.” Ricky glanced around at the perfect stillness of the street, at the neat hedges around the garden, at the painted porch, at the cleaned windows. “Who lives here now?”

“No one,” said Tinsley. “I pay for it to be maintained. With the money my parents left me.”

“...Do you want to go inside?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m- if I’m ready.” His hand gripped Ricky’s back, tight. “I haven’t come here since they died. I don’t know if I can handle it all so suddenly.”

“Ten years?”

“Ten years.” Tinsley looked down at him, and his eyes were watery. “Do you think it would be good for me?”

Ricky thought about it. Then he nodded. “Yes. I think it would. The longer you leave it, the harder it will get.”

Tinsley took a deep breath, straightening back up. Then he let go of Ricky’s hand and fumbled through the keys for the right one. “Okay. Okay, we need somewhere to stay anyway, I suppose.”

They transferred the cases from the car to the porch, and into the house. Tinsley reached for the lights, a memory reflex. The hallway went straight ahead to a kitchen, and along the right wall was a wooden stairs. Another door was to the left, and it led into a sitting room, walls painted a terracotta red, and with a homely fireplace and some logs. It was dust-free. Everything was dust-free, remarkably clean. Like a corpse washed and prepped in its finery. Ricky let Tinsley go ahead alone after they'd taken off their coats and gloves; some things had to be done alone. Some memories couldn’t have distractions, or it would ruin their potency. He remained in the hallway and watched as Tinsley moved slowly toward the kitchen, like he was walking in a dream. He had to duck his head a tad to get through the doorway. Ricky tried to imagine him as a child, running around this house, carefree. He couldn’t imagine him short, not even as a child. He couldn’t imagine him carefree either.

Tinsley had disappeared into the kitchen, although his footsteps were still audible, slow and ponderous. Ricky moved after him to stand in the doorway, one hand on the frame. It was a small kitchen, but cozy. There were framed photographs on the wall. Ricky went up to the closest one, straightening it. In the frame were two people, happy, arms around each other. On the left was a woman with Tinsley’s eyes; they crinkled at the corners in the same friendly manner. Although her hair was tied back it was messy, in a most endearing way. On the right was a man, tall and thin, with a prominent pointed nose and a charming smile. Ricky moved on from Mr and Mrs Tinsley to another photo, and it showed a boy of perhaps twelve, in front of a ceramic bowl, elbow-deep in dough. He was smiling widely, and his hair was a mess, and there was flour on the tip of his nose, and Ricky didn’t need to guess who it was. He smiled at the photo, reaching up a hand to just touch the corner of the frame.

“You were adorable,” he said over his shoulder, before moving on to the next framed picture.

His smile dropped, and his eyes narrowed at the professional photo of Tinsley, more recognizable now, looking very smart, and beside him was her. In a white wedding dress. They stood under a trellis adorned with flowers. Ricky wondered how the petals hadn’t shriveled and died just from being within a metre of her sour presence. He scowled at her face. Then he looked at the photo above it, and his heart softened again. It was Tinsley in a traditional cop’s uniform, at what he assumed was some sort of graduation ceremony.

“Do you still have your old uniform?” asked Ricky distractedly. “I don’t have a particular liking for them, but I imagine I’d like it on you.”

He didn’t get any response. He turned, and Tinsley had his back to him, holding another framed photo, the sort that propped itself up. Ricky crossed the small space to him, looking around his arm at the photo’s contents; it was Tinsley and his parents, and they looked blissfully content, talking over a dinner table. It was refreshingly natural, the way Tinsley had one hand stacked with plates and the other resting on the tablecloth to keep it from slipping, the way his mother stood beside him in an apron, with oven gloves on and a large pot in her hands, and his father stood mid-talk, one hand a tad blurred due to a gesture he must have been making. Ricky wondered who took the photo. He hoped it hadn’t been her.

“That’s a lovely photo,” he said, one hand resting on Tinsley’s arm. “So natural. You should take it with you when we go.” Again he didn’t get a response. “Tinsley, look at me a moment.”

Tinsley finally did, and his face was wet with tears, his lashes beaded with them. Ricky’s heart dropped to the floor. 

“Oh, _amore mio._ Come here.” He took the photo from Tinsley’s hands, setting it aside before drawing him into a tight hug, a hand on the back of his head, running through his hair gently. "Cry if you have to, it's okay."

Tinsley sniffled for a moment or two, his face hidden in the shorter man's shoulder. He whispered: "I'm glad you're with me."

"I'm glad I'm with you too."

After another few minutes Tinsley straightened back up, taking a deep breath. "Will I light a fire?"

"Yes. Yes, that's a good idea. I'll make tea." He started unpacking the few groceries they'd bought - milk, bread, coffee and tea, butter, jam, enough for breakfast and a quick midnight snack, as they were currently having. He called into Tinsley: "Do you want some toast?"

"Yes!"

He foraged a tray from the kitchen and placed the toast and the two mugs on it - one tea, one coffee - before carrying it all into the small sitting room. He heard the crackling of a fire before he saw it, and when he stepped into the room the immediate flood of warmth was heavenly. He placed the rattling tray down on the table in front of the couch, watching Tinsley where he stood in front of a dark wood bookshelf in the corner.

"What are you doing? Didn't you bring enough books?"

Tinsley held one open, reading some handwritten note scrawled in blue ink on the yellowing paper. "My parents used to sign the books they got me for birthdays and such. Look at this one."

Ricky stood beside him to read it. _Happy 18th Birthday Charlie!!! Happy reading! Lots of love, mom and dad._ And then a whole queue of kisses. Ricky smiled. "That's so sweet."

"I should take some with me," murmured Tinsley. "Like this one. _Wuthering Heights."_

"I can't say I've read it."

“'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same'.”

Ricky looked at the book, and he’d never felt quite so jealous of an inanimate object before. This was a book that had been in Tinsley’s hands, for hours at a time, gently, softly, each page turned and admired and remembered. Ricky wanted for such. He wanted to be in his hands, and be admired, and be remembered line for line. So he reached aside and threaded his fingers through Tinsley's, just because he could. His eyes found a book he had read long ago.

“I know this one,” said Ricky, tapping it. “It was one of the first I read in English. It was one of the first that made me realize that English wasn’t such an ugly-sounding language after all. If used right.”

“Oh?”

“'You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how'. I remember thinking that that was a… a beautiful sentiment.”

Tinsley didn’t respond, but he didn’t move away either. He stayed behind him, hidden away. His voice said: “But it's not a love story."

"Yes it is."

"It's not. The ending isn't happy."

Ricky shrugged. "Some love stories don't end happily. Most don't. I like… I like a _good_ story."

"A story can still be good, even if it has a happy ending." Tinsley gave him a playful nudge with his elbow. "I wouldn't have put _you_ down as a pessimist, Ricky. I though that was my role."

"I'm a man of many talents. I can be the optimist _and_ the pessimist, as I choose." He reached out and took _Wuthering Heights,_ flipping it in his hand to look at the dark cover with its small gold title. "Can I read this one?"

"Sure."

Ricky held the book in his hand, casual at his side. His eyes were on the rest of the books, his free hand running along their spines. "Do you want to know one quote that I remember from a book?"

"Of course."

Ricky recited a sentence in his own language, flowing, without a single skip or stutter. He didn’t speak after, his fingertips just resting on the spine of a single tall, slender book. His gaze was low, not just in thought, but in another world entirely. Tinsley’s heart fluttered in his chest, so light, even though he had no idea what the other man had just said. He swallowed before speaking.

“What does it mean?”

Ricky still didn’t look at him. His touch didn’t move from the book. “In that book which is my memory, on the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life’." A pause. "Dante, I think it was."

Tinsley didn’t quite know what to say, or whether he should say anything at all. Ricky was revealing something private, so private and so real that Tinsley felt he should be covering his eyes as he would from the sun’s rays. He said: “That’s… a nice quote."

“I know. I read it over and over. I never forgot it.” Ricky let his hand move to rest on the edge of the shelf below the book. “It was a feeling I never thought I'd have the opportunity to have."

Tinsley took a quiet breath at the soft words, willing the other man to look at him, so he could show something, some understanding. Ricky didn't look at him. He wasn't looking at anything in this room, in this world at all.

"And it must be nice," said Ricky. "To write something so powerful about love. I often wonder how they do it."

"I suppose they have to feel it first."

Ricky's gaze lifted, as if reminded he wasn't alone. He turned his head to look up at the other man, and his face was innocent, childlike, caught off-guard. "Yes. I suppose they do."

Tinsley looked into his eyes, and they said, so clearly, _kiss me._ He slipped his hand around the back of Ricky's head, fingers pushing through his dark curls, and he leaned down and kissed him. He felt Ricky's hand cup his face, before it moved around to the back of his neck and drew him down to touch their foreheads together. Then Ricky kissed him on the tip of his nose, smiling.

"You don't want your tea to go cold, do you?"

Tinsley shook his head. "No. I suppose not."

"Then the kisses can wait. We have all the time in the world, after all."

They sat side by side and ate their toast and jam and drank their hot drinks. With a comfortable couch and a fire and no noisy neighbours one room over, it was the most decadent stop they'd had in their journey so far, and they snoozed on the couch, one draped over the other. With the weight of Ricky on his chest and the sound of his slow, lax breathing, Tinsley realized he would have been perfectly happy to have just stayed in this house, for two days, three, a week, a month. This house used to be his place of comfort, and although he had lost this comfort when his parents had died, he'd found it again in Ricky. It had never been the place, he realized. It had been the people. Ricky rested his chin on Tinsley's chest, looking at him with his dark eyes.

"Do you have a shower here?"

Tinsley nodded. "It's upstairs. I think there's still towels around."

Ricky got off him, stretching leisurely, the end of his shirt rising above his trousers to bare just the smallest amount of skin. "Lovely. I'm going to have a shower and get into my pajamas, and then I'm coming right back to fall asleep _right_ here. So don't move."

Tinsley just nodded, watching him leave the room. He loved the way he walked, sure and confident, with just a bit of a swagger. He heard the shower water start running, gurgling through the pipes.

Ricky wouldn't notice if he moved for just a _little_ bit. He got up and tidied up the tray and mugs and plates and carried them out to the kitchen, where he set them down beside the sink, as he had done hundreds of times in his life. His eyes landed on the photographs on the wall, and the one of he and his wife on their wedding day. He took it down, holding it in both hands as he looked at her. He felt strange whenever he thought of her. He knew that he _should_ miss her, that it was _expected_ of him to miss her, and yet he didn't. He hadn't even gone to her funeral, seeing as her family had taken control of the proceedings, and they had never exactly gotten along - if they hadn't gotten along when Tinsley was married to her, they definitely wouldn't after she was dead.

He turned the frame over, opening it and taking out the photo. He went back into the sitting room and dropped it onto the fire, and he was glad there was only one picture of her in the house. Funnily enough, his parents had never liked her.

"One picture is enough," his mother would say, dryly.

"Sounds like one picture is _more_ than enough, hon," his dad would reply with a wink and a smile.

He heard the shower upstairs turn off, bringing him back to the current moment. And Ricky. His life-changer, his life- _saver._ He could hear him singing in Italian, a bit off-key, distracted, but sweet nonetheless. He still felt an overwhelming safety and security even just being in the same building as Ricky. Tinsley rolled his sleeves to his elbows and started the small bit of washing up, content.

"Ah, the perfect housewife," sighed Ricky as he swanned into the kitchen in his flannel pajamas, barefoot, still drying his hair with a towel. He rested his chin on Tinsley's shoulder, smiling at him. "All you need is an apron."

Tinsley rolled his eyes, taking one hand from the foamy water and smearing it across Ricky's stubbled cheek, hearing the delightedly disgusted laugh as the man reared away. "You're still intent on growing that beard, are you?"

"Just to make an effort at some sort of disguise! Don't you like it?"

Tinsley did like it. He liked seeing Ricky scruffy, comfortable, with his hair unstyled and a five-o-clock shadow. "I do! Out of curiosity, have you ever even had a beard?"

"Never. We're not allowed." Ricky was still standing behind him, arms around his waist, head resting against his back. "It gets itchy sometimes. I'll get rid of it when we find my sister. And my nieces and nephew."

"Do you miss them?"

"Every minute of every day." Ricky stayed wrapped around Tinsley as the man dried his hands on a towel. He reached out once he was done to take hold of one of his hands, holding it in place, his fingers against Tinsley's palm and his thumb against the back of his hand. "You have such nice hands, you know."

"Do I?"

Ricky brought his hand to his lips and kissed it. "Yes. You have such nice everything."

He knew it sounded corny, but it was true. He liked everything about Tinsley, most of all the air of romance he seemed to carry with him so effortlessly, and although there used to be a hint of sadness to it, that aspect was almost gone entirely. Ricky savoured it, and it excited him; he had never had sex with romance involved. He had never, as they said, 'made love'. But he knew he would with Tinsley, whenever the time came.

Without discussion they moved back into the sitting room, where the fire was still smoldering, the logs a soft, crumbling white in the flames. Tinsley allowed himself to be used as a makeshift bed, Ricky draped on top of him as before, one hand hanging off the side of the couch to just about touch the wooden floor, not quite unlike a feline lounging on a branch, paw dangling. Tinsley ran his fingers through Ricky's hair, gently rhythmic, his other hand holding his book open so his weary but happy eyes could read it at his leisure. ... _b_ _ut when they kissed goodnight in bed, Therese felt their sudden release, that leap of response in both of them, as if their bodies were of some materials which put together inevitably created desire..._ Tinsley closed the book over with one hand, placing it aside, his eyes stuck to the ceiling. Ricky's body was warm on top of him, warm and close, and so readily his. Tinsley let his hand drift away from Ricky's hair to rest on his back, sliding down to his lower back, his other hand joining it.

He sat upright, slowly so as not to startle Ricky, who sat back with him, staying across his hips, a puzzled look on his face. This puzzled look vanished quickly, slipping away at the sight of Tinsley's eyes, which were lowered, glittering, to watch Ricky's mouth. Ricky had seen that look before, that burning lust, on various people's faces, but none made his heart race like seeing it on Tinsley's face. He felt Tinsley's fingers under his chin, drawing him forward just an inch. Tinsley's own head was tilted just the right amount, his parted lips lingering close to Ricky’s, close enough that their breath was mingling. Ricky waited, just to make sure that Tinsley was sure, his hands slipping around Tinsley’s arms to grip them tightly. He let out a quiet, trembling breath, his lips still parted, waiting. Tinsley leaned in and took him in a strong, gentle kiss, letting it end slowly. He watched Ricky’s face, the closed eyes and sweet mouth and the dark brows drifting into a frustrated frown. Ricky ducked his head, as if ashamed of his need, his fingers digging into the taller man’s arms for something solid to hold onto. Tinsley cupped one side of his face, kissing the other, letting the kisses run down to below Ricky’s jaw, feeling the reaction from him, his body pressing closer to Tinsley’s, his hand gripping the back of his neck with sudden urgency, his breathing harsh and erratic. His other hand was between Tinsley’s shoulder blades, clinging onto him, letting himself be guided to his feet. He wasn’t aware of where they were going, or even where they were. The sensation of the hungry kisses against his neck was overwhelming, they had him hot all over, they had him lightheaded, weak, desperate in his need for more. He let his head tilt back, baring his throat, allowing more space that the kisses took swift advantage of. He could hear himself, the breathy curses from his mouth, and he felt fingers fumbling at his pajama shirt, unbuttoning it with haste. He let Tinsley begin to undress him, goosebumps flooding across his skin as he felt the man’s hands slip under his shirt and draw it down off his shoulders. The fabric landed on the floor of the hall with a soft _fwump_ , and Tinsley paused, as if suddenly reminded of where he was and who he was with and what they were doing. It wasn't often that his dreams came true.

He took hold of Ricky’s hand and led him upstairs and into a bedroom. His old bedroom. He hadn’t slept in it for a long, long, long time, but the bed was still there, and it was made up, as he had asked the housekeeper to do, just in case he decided to come back. He'd been saying that for ten years, and finally he was here, in a situation he never would have dreamed of. Tinsley closed the door over behind them, and the room was in darkness, only the pale silver moonlight drifting in through the windows, the snow drifting past outside. He closed the curtains and crossed to the tall lamp in the corner of the room, and the light was a soft and dim gold, changing the shadows from cold to warm. Tinsley straightened back up, turning to look down the length of the bed at Ricky, and Ricky looked back, the questions thick in the air between them. _Here? Now?_ Ricky couldn’t read any hesitance on the other man’s face, and he certainly hadn’t been at all hesitant a few minutes ago. He started untying his pajama bottoms, slowing to a halt as Tinsley came over and took hold of his hands, pushing them aside. Tinsley started untying it himself, his gaze lowered, his heart pounding, Ricky's hands resting on his forearms. He got down on one knee, helping Ricky out of his trousers. He took hold of his hips, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his boxers. He pressed a kiss to the man’s stomach, and another, nose pushing into him with each one. Ricky’s hand ran through his hair, soft, tilting his head back to look up at him.

“Take off your clothes too.”

Tinsley started doing so, sitting on the side of the bed and pulling his shirt off over his head. He hurried to take off his trousers, impatient, unable to concentrate properly with the thought that soon, so soon, Ricky was going to be in his bed, in his hands, all for him. He went entirely still when Ricky simply went ahead and stripped off his boxers, and he swiftly moved to take his off too. When he was done he scooched back onto the bed, and Ricky climbed after him, onto him, sitting across his hips. Tinsley lay back with a quiet breath, seemingly in awe, his eyes stuck to Ricky's face. Ricky took hold of his hands, bringing them forward to rest on his body, pressing them in firm against his waist, an invitation. Tinsley swallowed, letting his hands creep slowly upward, tracing along his ribs, feeling each slow breath. He let one hand travel onward, moving up Ricky's chest, feeling his heart racing, and feeling the matching pulse as his fingers brushed up his neck, along his jaw, fingertips tracing his parted lips. Ricky's shaky breaths were hot on his hand. Tinsley watched in silence as Ricky took hold of the hand and turned it so that he could press a soft kiss to his palm, his dark eyes resting on Tinsley’s, heavy-lidded, smoldering. He moved on to kiss the inside of his wrist, watching Tinsley’s face, seeing his eyes flutter, hearing the quiet inhale he took. Ricky kept a hold of his wrist, pressing it to the pillow beside Tinsley’s head as he leaned in to kiss his neck, open-mouthed, hungry. His lips brushed across his throat to the other side of his neck before starting again with vigor, and he could hear Tinsley’s breaths growing panted, his free hand on Ricky’s back, fingers digging in. Ricky took hold of him by his jaw, keeping his head turned aside, keeping his neck bared so that the kisses had as much free rein as possible. Tinsley’s hand ran up Ricky’s back to grip his shoulder, his other hand clenched into a fist where Ricky had it pinned to the pillow. He lost himself to the sensation, yet he was still more present than he had ever been.

Ricky broke away, Tinsley sitting forward to try and follow, stopping at Ricky's hand pressing into his chest. Their breathlessness was the only sound in the room.

"Wait here," said Ricky quietly.

Tinsley did so, lying back, rubbing his hands down his face, letting his fingers just rest over his mouth as he stared at the ceiling. He couldn't quite believe it. Within a matter of months, his life had changed entirely. He could hear Ricky in the bathroom, searching through a cupboard or two, and when he reappeared he had a tub of Vaseline in hand. He reassumed his original position, sitting across Tinsley's hips. He kept his voice low, secretive.

"Do you want me to tell you what to do?"

Tinsley nodded as he sat upright, tilting his head aside just enough to press a kiss to the man’s lips. Ricky rested an arm around his shoulders as the kiss deepened, both of them savouring every aspect; the warm, solid feeling of skin-on-skin, the heat of their breath mixing, the sensation of mouths working together, tongues brushing, slow and hot and heavy. Tinsley’s brows drew up and together as he felt Ricky’s hand run up through his hair, guiding him in the kiss, keeping him close. He let out a low moan, a desperate sound, and Ricky’s hands moved to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Ricky broke off, keeping their mouths close, watching the dreamy look on the other man’s face, hearing the trembling breaths, and he knew Tinsley was all his for the night, every piece of him. He kissed him, harder than before, feeling Tinsley's hands on his hips grow bolder, moving around to his lower back, and finally to his ass, running over the curve of it and back again before gripping it properly. Ricky took hold of his hands and guided them where he wanted them, and Tinsley was a quick learner, and more importantly an eager one. He had expected Tinsley to be just a bit more hesitant, more red-faced with embarrassment; instead he was red-faced with exertion. He was more readily active than Ricky had imagined, more than prepared to flip their positions when he wanted, to take control when he wanted, and although not yet the most skilled he didn't hold back in any regard. He made good use of his long-fingered hands, in a manner which he soon realized Ricky was particularly fond of. It was the guts of an hour later before Ricky got back on top, settling across Tinsley's hips again, breathless with excitement.

He made love with the same endless passion he applied to everything else. His head was tilted back, his whole body behind the movement as his hips rocked back and forth, grinding in sharp circles that forced a whined curse from Tinsley’s mouth each time, just audible over Ricky’s own incessant moaning. He fell forward, his hands pressed to Tinsley’s chest, his hips unrelenting as they threw themselves back and forth and back and forth. Tinsley was fighting for breath under him, but the look in his eyes was determined, his fingers digging into Ricky's hips. Ricky slowed to a halt when Tinsley sat upright and hooked an arm around his waist, flipping their positions, laying Ricky back on the bed where he had just been before laying himself on top of him, taking control of the situation. He felt Ricky’s hands on his back, fingers digging in, panted breaths broken by short, sweet moans. His own arms were under Ricky’s shoulders, hands gripping the sheets as he drove into him, face buried in his shoulder, their bodies sliding against each other, skin on skin. He slowed, pressing kisses up along the side of Ricky’s neck, making his way to his mouth, kissing him like it was their first time, their last time, their only time. When he broke off Ricky was breathless, lips still parted, still burning. He slipped a hand around the back of Tinsley’s neck and drew him in again, unwilling to let such a kiss end. He’d never experienced one like it; he needed more and more and more, and Tinsley was happy to oblige. The headboard struck the wall, the bedsprings squeaked, loud enough to wake the street, but the two men were too wrapped up in each other to notice. Their open mouths were pressed together, fingers digging into each other, their panted breaths loud, erratic. Tinsley's back was hard under Ricky's hands, muscles shifting with each rut of his hips, and he was unexpectedly strong, unexpectedly passionate, addicted to the breathless moans he was eliciting from Ricky below him. Ricky’s head hit back against the pillow as a sharp surge of pleasure went through him, a moan ripping from his throat. He was barely aware of Tinsley’s fingers pushing through his, pinning his hands to the sheets as the surges kept coming, until they were constant, Ricky whining with each rut, his eyes squeezed shut and mouth open, his head pushed back to bare his throat. Tinsley let their positions be rolled so that they were on their sides, the sheets a damp tangle around their bodies, his hand gripping Ricky's thigh where it rested on his hip. Ricky was insatiable, grinding his hips against Tinsley with such fervour Tinsley gave in and rolled onto his back, letting Ricky take over again, hands pressed to his body, riding him like it would kill him if he stopped. Tinsley lay back with his hands balling up the pillow, refusing to let his eyes close as he watched Ricky, watched him fall back, hands grabbing hold of Tinsley’s legs for balance, hips still grinding into him. He was cursing, words Tinsley couldn’t understand, but he didn’t need to. He gritted his teeth, his head tilting aside, eyes squeezed shut, his grip white-knuckled on the pillow as he let out a rough moan, the bed shaking under him. He should've known Ricky would be a bed-breaker, but in the moment he couldn't have cared less.

He finished with an intensity he had never experienced in his life, his fingers digging into Ricky hard enough to hurt, his eyes squeezed shut and a broken moan making its way out of his mouth. Ricky got off him, flopping onto the bed beside him where he lay panting, a hand resting across his eyes. When Tinsley had caught his breath efficiently he followed, getting back on top, pressing a kiss to Ricky's lips, tasting the salty sweat, and he could taste it all the way down his body, he could feel it against his mouth, he could feel it under his hands, a damp warmth dusted over the smooth skin underneath. He took him in his mouth, and Ricky's body shifted in response, hands taking fistfuls of the sheets either side of his hips, his moans sweet, the smallest, most breathless _oh’s_ leaving his parted lips. One hand left the sheets to push through Tinsley's hair, which itself was dampened with sweat, fingers curling in it. He relaxed back, eyes closed, breathing heavily, his dark hair stuck to his skin.

Afterwards, when they were laying in bed and sharing a cigarette, chatting idly about the universe, Tinsley turned his head to look at Ricky and said: "I used to think my life was full of mistakes, you know. But now I don't think I've ever made a mistake in my life."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Because everything I've done has brought me to this moment."


	23. Locomotion - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Before the sun goes down_  
>  _I'll lay my wildflower hand_  
>  _in your hand's white wicker basket_  
>  _And bold - tender - shy I'll encircle you_  
>  _as day and night would encircle_  
>  _the trees of the day and night_  
>  _And my kisses will live like birds on your shoulder._ \- Astrid Hjertenaes Andersen

The sun peeked through the curtains, bright and white, indicative of the snow still piled outside where it was cold and harsh. Ricky sat upright in the warm, soft bed and stretched, fingers interlocked and arms up over his head. He felt light as a dream as he ran his hands back through his hair, eyes still closed and a blissful smile on his face. He rolled aside to drape himself halfway over the sleeping Tinsley, who let out the most quiet of grunts in response, lying face-down. Ricky brushed a hand through his hair, waiting for his face to rise out of the pillow.

"Wake up," he whispered.

Tinsley turned his head to face him, his eyes still trying to get the motion of blinking in unison right. "Good morning."

"Good morning." Ricky pressed closer against him, feeling Tinsley's arm slip around his waist, guiding him in. "How are you?"

"Exhausted." Tinsley voice was muffled by the pillow. "But good. I feel good."

"I feel good too." Ricky pressed a kiss to his cheek, and another, hearing the satisfied little _mm'_ s Tinsley let out with each one. "Do you want coffee?"

"I'll make it, hon." Tinsley attempted to get out of the bed, but was unable to get past lying on his back. "In a minute. I'll make it in a minute."

Ricky slipped closer to him again, resting his head on his chest, arms around him. His eyes closed as he felt Tinsley's fingers push through his hair, and again, calming, comfortable. He was the most at ease he had ever been, his limbs weighed down with the feeling, like it wasn't necessary for him to ever move again. He had done what he was put on this planet to do; fall deeply, deeply in love. He could feel himself drifting, the sound of Tinsley's steady heartbeats lulling him to sleep again.

Tinsley waited until he was sure Ricky had gone back to sleep, until he could hear the quiet snores, until he could feel the man's weight entirely relaxed on top of him. Then he carefully slipped out from under him, tucking the covers back into place as well as he could without waking him. Tinsley moved quietly, pulling on his pajamas and taking his glasses from the bedside locker before shrugging on his dressing gown and heading downstairs.

The house seemed like a different place altogether. As he took the steps downstairs all he could remember was the scramble up them the night before, Ricky's hand in his, their hearts racing like lovers on their honeymoon. In the hall he could still feel the desperation with which they'd clutched at each other, their breaths shaking. He paused to pick Ricky's pajama shirt up off the floor, hanging it on the end of the banister before moving on into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and set it to boil and the birds sang outside. The sun was Midas, turning everything it touched to gold. Snow dripped from above the window, little crystal beads. He felt at peace. He took down two mugs, one bright and splashed with patterns, and the other striped in various shades of blue. He added creamer to their coffees, because this morning felt like a special occasion. Every minute spent with Ricky felt like a special occasion. Tinsley was already impatient to get back to him.

He hurried back upstairs, mismatched mugs in his hands, but he stopped in the doorway. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of Ricky, lying on his front, the duvet gathered around his waist, one arm draped over the pillow and his face hidden by his mass of dark curls. His skin was warm against the plain sheets, the lines of his back smooth. Tinsley set the mugs down on the bedside locker before attempting to wake him. He placed a hand on his arm, giving it a light shake. A muffled noise was his response. Then Ricky rolled onto his back, stretching again, lax as bedamned.

"Coffee?"

Tinsley nodded, brushing the back of his hand against the man's cheek. "Yes."

Ricky took Tinsley's hand in both of his, turning it so that he could kiss his palm, soft as a blessing. "Thank you."

Tinsley sat on the side of the bed and Ricky sat beside him, still gathered under the covers for warmth. He rested his chin on Tinsley's shoulder before pressing his lips to it in a warm kiss, and another, letting them drift along to Tinsley's neck, his arms slipping around the man's shoulders, one hand still holding his coffee. Tinsley smiled to himself, eyes closed, reaching a hand back to cup Ricky's face.

"Thank you for last night," he said quietly. "It meant a lot to me. It's been a long time since I've felt wanted like that."

Ricky kissed his cheek, arms still wrapped around him. "I want you." Another kiss. "Forever. All to myself."

"I don't think I was ever anyone else's. Not truly." Tinsley brought Ricky's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the backs of his fingers, murmuring his words against them. "I was just waiting for you."

Ricky leaned forward a tad to kiss him properly, smiling at him. "Well here I am." He lay back down. "Come back into bed, _amore mio."_

Tinsley gladly did so, getting back under the covers, careful not to spill his coffee. "What does that mean, by the way? Love?"

 _"My_ love," clarified Ricky with mock-sternness. "All mine."

Tinsley smiled, but it was distracted. "Teach me some of your-"

"Tongue?" suggested Ricky with a playful smile. "I'll teach you some of my tongue."

"Your language," corrected Tinsley, his fingertips resting against the other man's mouth to keep it from his. Just for now. "Teach me it."

"My language? Well, it's vast. What would you want to know?"

Tinsley looked at him, a long, soft look. "Teach me how to say I love you."

Ricky rested back against the pillow, watching the other man with that helpless look in his eyes which Tinsley was beginning to realize wasn't helplessness. It was vulnerability, and tenderness, and want, and above all a blissful happiness. Ricky reached out a hand, cupping the side of his face, brushing a thumb over his cheek.

 _"Ti amo_ ," he said, quietly. He let his fingertip run down along Tinsley's nose, coming to a halt at the pointed tip, light as a dream. _"Tu sei quello che stavo aspettando_. You are the one I've been waiting for."

Tinsley let out a shaky breath, and he rolled on top of the other man, unable to look away from his eyes, unable to even comprehend the action. Why would he ever wish to look away from them? They held more love than was possible. He felt Ricky's hands on the back of his neck, drawing him into a kiss, his arms slipping around his shoulders. Ricky broke away after a moment, surprised at the sudden damp he felt on his face.

"No, why are you crying?" Ricky used his thumbs to brush away the man's tears. "What's wrong?"

Tinsley shook his head. "Nothing."

"Then why are you crying? Oh, don't cry."

Tinsley sniffed, resting his head in the crook of Ricky's shoulder. "I'm crying because I'm happy."

Ricky smiled, relieved. "I'm happy too. And I wish we could stay here."

"Me too."

"But for now, we keep moving?"

"Yes. We keep moving."

They ate a small breakfast of toast and butter and jam, another coffee each, and then packed up the few things they had unpacked. Ricky drew back the curtains in the sitting room, his mouth falling open.

 _"Che bello!"_ He turned his head, calling into Tinsley in the hall. "There's so much snow! It looks like cotton candy!"

Tinsley joined him at the window, pulling his gloves on. He didn't seem overly taken with the beauty. "God damnit. We'll need chains. I'm sure there's some in the house somewhere."

"Eh? Chains?"

"For driving in snow. We won't get far in that mush." Tinsley was already out into the hall again. "Give me a minute!"

By the time he came back, loaded down with the chains, Ricky was bundled up to such an extent that he was nothing but two sparkly eyes and a few loose curls between a scarf and a hat, as excited as a child at Christmas. Tinsley rolled his eyes, fondly, letting him outside first. The snow had fallen thick and heavy overnight, almost a foot, and the clouds were dark, threatening to let more snow fall. They'd have to leave quickly, to avoid being stranded in Chicago for the foreseeable future. Ricky staggered straight onto the lawn, flopping down on his back in the snow, laughing delightedly.

"Oh, it's wonderful!"

"Is it now?" said Tinsley, beginning to think he wasn't going to have much help getting the chains on the wheels.

"So beautiful." Ricky began making a snow angel at his leisure. "You grew up with this? You're so lucky!"

"Yes. Believe me, it's not so lucky when you have to work and function in it."

"Oh, come on, Mr Grumpy. Liven up." Ricky was crunching some snow into a ball between his gloved hands, grinning over his scarf. "Catch this!"

"Ricky, don't-" Tinsley raised his arms around his head as the snowball exploded against his coat with a soft _plat._ "Don't challenge me! As I said, I grew up with this. I can make ten snowballs a second. I'm like a machine."

"Oh yes? Prove it!"

Tinsley abandoned the chains for the next few minutes of tussling like teenagers in the snow, laughing as they rolled into a drift, Ricky's face flushed red with the cold and exhilaration, and Tinsley got on top of him, threatening him with a handful of snow.

"I'll put this down your shirt! I will! You won't be laughing then!"

Ricky gave up on trying to wriggle out from under him, pouting. "Don't. That's mean."

"Oh, is it mean? Can't handle the cold, hm? Too hot-blooded for ol' Chicago." Tinsley brought the snow closer with a grin. "This will teach you not to challenge me in my own domain."

Ricky suddenly kissed him, hooking an arm around his neck, smiling against Tinsley's lips as he heard the man sigh in defeat.

"Fine. You win." Tinsley rolled his eyes, letting go of his handful of snow. "True love's kiss has melted my icy heart."

He left the engine running to warm up the car, Ricky helping him with the chains on the wheels. Once they were in the car they removed their damp coats and gloves and scarves, chucking them into the back seat. In fact, they had been so busy, so distracted, they hadn't noticed the indent of tire tracks in the snow that ran back and forth in front of the house. When they turned the corner, a pair of headlights flashed on behind them. 

* * *

It took them an hour to get through the snowy street to Union. The station was decorated for Christmas; a magnificently gigantic tree covered in jewel-coloured baubles and twinkling fairy lights sat in the centre of the main hall, its highest point only inches from the glass roof, and wreaths of evergreen were draped from the creamy marble walls. Ricky and Tinsley had not seen these decorations yet. They were stuck outside in a battle of morals, their voices muffled through their scarves, breaths fogging.

"We're not coming back for the car. We don't need a ticket."

"Oh, Ricky." Tinsley took back at the meter, coins in hand. "It feels wrong."

"Tinsley, don't buy that ticket."

"...I'll just pay for an hour. To give me some peace of mind."

"You're wasting our limited cash here."

"It's only a dollar!"

"Exactly! So what's the point?"

"It- It makes me feel bad!"

Ricky tutted behind his teeth. "Fine. Buy your pointless scrap of paper."

 _"Thank_ you." Tinsley stepped around him, footsteps crunching in the snow. "At least one of us never made a hobby out of breaking the law."

"Yes, and _one_ of us is richer than the other could ever hope to be because he doesn't waste his dollars on sheets of paper. So hurry. Chop-chop."

Tinsley placed the ticket on the dash of the car before shutting the door with a snappy flick of his wrist. Then he passed by Ricky with his nose in the air, haughty. Ricky slouched after him, muttering to himself in Italian. He thought he would miss leaving his car behind, never to drive it again, but having driven it non-stop for the guts of a week, he felt glad to see it go.

They took a moment to _ooh_ and _aah_ at the majestic Christmas tree before continuing on with their task. People buzzed around with piles of luggage, wrapped in their furs, going to stay with family or friends, or if they were lucky, going somewhere south, where it wasn't so cold it hurt.

Tinsley went up to the counter with a smile. "Hi. Can I get two adult tickets to Union in Portland?"

The clerk looked him over, but it wasn't malicious. It wasn't anything. "Sure thing, sir. That'd be $40 all together, whenever you're ready, sir."

"Is there, uh, first class?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And we have a lot of luggage."

"We have porters available, sir. Hot meals and drinks are provided on board in first class." Her voice was robotic, flat. "Rooms are provided due to length of journey time. You will be given your key on board, sir."

"Great! Fantastic. Two of those tickets, please." He felt a tug on his sleeve, Ricky lingering unnecessarily close, head tucked in against his arm, like a shy child. The clerk handed the tickets over, letting them know the train was to leave in fifteen minutes. "Thank you very much." The porters tagged their cases and took them away, and Tinsley tutted as he felt Ricky give his sleeve another demanding tug. "What? What is it?"

Ricky's reply was muttered. "Look over there. No, the noticeboard. Beside the train times."

Tinsley looked, and found himself look at a picture of Ricky. Not exactly a mugshot, but a close-up from a newspaper photograph. "Oh. Oh no."

 _"Dio santo,_ someone's going to recognize me," he whispered, fearful. "It's not even an old photograph. It's only from a few weeks ago."

"Shh, just- just put this hat on. Give me a minute." Tinsley crossed over to the noticeboard, leaning forward as if to examine the times very closely, but his gaze was sidelong as he read the - thankfully small - poster. _Criminal at large. Don of the Garafalo family. Wanted. Reward. Contact number._ Tinsley stared at the number. He snatched the poster down, tearing it through the top in his urgency. He strode over to the payphone, shoving a few quarters into the slot, dialing the contact number. It rang once before being answered with a calm: "Detective Holly Horsley speaking."

Tinsley felt the anger wash over him, icy cold. "What in the name of God do you think you're doing."

A stunned silence. "...Tinsley?"

"I just saw one of your delightful posters. Recognized your office phone. Now explain yourself."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't mess with me now, Holly. You're not a fool. You know about me and Ricky. You've known for a while, I think."

"Yes. Yes, and I just- Is he with you?"

"Yes. And I'd like him to stay with me. So-"

"Tinsley, listen. You have to-"

"I won't goddamn listen, Holly! I'm sick of listening! This is the most important thing in my life!" He was gripping the phone with both hands, white-knuckled. "Ricky is the most important thing to me _._ And I know that maybe I should have let you know before I left, but clearly I was right not to trust you!"

"Tinsley, please, let me talk-"

"And I don't care if you're against me being with him. I don't care if you disapprove or- or whatever. Because-" He dropped his voice to a hushed whisper, furious. "Because I'm in love with him, okay! And I know I am because I know what love feels like! It's not infatuation, or anything like that, because I'm a grown adult and I know when it's deeper! So don't try to lecture me or talk 'common sense' into me or-"

She had to shout to make him quieten down. "You're being followed, you idiot! Listen to me!" She barreled on ahead in the ensuing silence. "I needed to get in contact with you. _That's_ why the posters are up. You took your sweet time recognizing the number anyway, but it doesn't matter. There's people after Ricky, and by people I mean mobsters, and they're going to try and kill him. I had a hunch you'd be with him. Lucy can't get in contact with him, so the posters were a last-ditch attempt to get at least one of you to- Hello? Are you still there?"

"...Yes." His face was blank, his words numb. He fumbled in his pocket for change, popping some more into the slot. "I'm still here."

"Where are you right now?"

"Union. Chicago. To go to Portland." He checked his watch. "Train's in about six minutes, so if you have anything to tell me I'd suggest hurrying it up a bit."

"Have you noticed anyone following you?"

"I don't think so. A few nights ago we thought a car was following us but then we thought it wasn't but now I don't know."

"Then keep going. Keep going, okay. And- And call me when you get to Portland, alright?"

"Alright." He swallowed. "Thanks, Holly. I shouldn't have doubted you."

"Quite right." A short pause. "Good luck, Tinsley. I mean that." The phone call ended with a click.

Ricky appeared at his side, grabbing his elbow. "Tinsley, we have to go. Now. The train man is calling."

"The conductor?"

"Does it matter?!"

Tinsley stared at him, still a bit stunned. "No. No, it doesn't, does it."

Ricky gave his elbow a pull. "Then let's go, okay!"

They ended up running for the train amid the heated hustle and bustle of the platform, their coats whipping in the icy wind blowing in from outside, trains whistling loud and sharp and piercing. The smoke and steam clogged the air. Ricky hopped up into the nearest carriage, one hand gripping the rail and the other hand out for Tinsley to grab onto, hauling him up in a hurry. The platform had started to gradually slide away, the train beginning to move slow and steady. They didn't talk until they had worked their way to the front carriages, where they stood out just a whole lot among the neat and tidy first-class passengers, who looked them over with raised brows. A steward advanced instantly, his eyes narrowed, nose turned upward in blatant snobbery.

"Good day, sirs. May I see your tickets?"

Tinsley whipped them out from his coat pocket, regaining his composure. "Right here."

Ricky watched with growing impatience as the tickets were scrutinized closely from many angles. He was, understandably, not used to such treatment. The steward looked back at them, his waxed moustache twitching along with his nose.

"And I trust these _are_ your tickets?"

Tinsley blushed. "Yes. Yes, I-" He started searching through his coat pockets. "I have the receipt somewhere, I think. Just-"

"Is this the type of treatment you give every passenger on this train, or have you chosen us for some reason?" demanded Ricky, his eyes narrowing. He gave the signet ring on his finger a single turn, drawing the steward's eye to it. The man paled instantly. "Or perhaps you _want_ your superior to be alerted of your incompetence, hm? Is that it? Do you want to lose your job and never find another for as long as you live? Well? Is that what you want?"

The steward backtracked instantly. "Apologies, _signore._ Security measures have been tightened recently, and earlier a man about your height-" He nodded at Tinsley. "-tried to come in here, so I just had to-"

Ricky unraveled himself from his coat and scarf and hat, handing them to the steward without looking at him. "Take these. Make sure the coat gets dry, it cost more than you earn in a year." He spoke over his shoulder as he passed. "And bring us a bottle of red." He spun on his heel to look him in the eye. "Your _most expensive_ one _._ And I'll know if you try and fool me. And you won't like how I respond." He moved on with a derisive toss of his hair.

Tinsley handed his coat over too with a mumbled "thanks" before hurrying down the carriage after Ricky. He joined him at one of the tables, sitting across from him, the window to his right, showing the city sliding past. "Christ, Ricky. What was that?"

Ricky raised his brows at him. "I know! I have never been treated like that in my life!"

"No, no, I meant..." He shrugged. "That's how normal people are treated."

"What?"

"...Have you ever traveled _not_ in first class?"

"Well, I've never traveled on a train at all, really."

"You made that a bit obvious, I suppose."

The wine arrived, and the steward poured it in silence, avoiding Ricky's gaze. Ricky took a taste, seemed satisfied, and waved the steward away (much to the steward's relief) before turning back to Tinsley, brows raised. "What was that phone call about back there? You seemed distressed."

"I _was_ distressed." He folded his arms on the table, leaning forward, his voice hushed as he explained how he had recognized the phone number on the poster, and what Holly had subsequently told him. "What if our paranoia this entire time has been right? What if every car we thought was following us _was_ following us?"

Ricky sat back, looking out the window. "I'm not surprised I'm being followed, but I am irritated."

"I'm terrified."

"They're not after you."

"I know that. They're after you. I wouldn't be half as scared if they were after me."

"Charmer."

"Ricky-" He fought the urge to reach out and take his hand; the rest of the travelers at the tables around them were a bit too high-and-mighty for his liking. "Ricky, listen to me. We have to stay inconspicuous now, okay? Which means no tantrums if you're disrespected a little."

Ricky inclined his head at this, eyes widening at the audacity of such a suggestion. "I did not throw a tantrum!"

"You absolutely did!"

"He was rude!"

"Shh." Tinsley cast a glance around at the other tables and chairs. Everyone seemed suspicious. That man was holding his newspaper up too high, most surely to disguise his face. That lady was definitely staring at them in the reflection from her window. Was that a camera flash or a flash off a spoon? "He was doing his job. Let's just- Let's just sit and relax for the rest of this, okay? The ticket says the total journey time is..." He checked the stub. "...forty-two hours."

"Wow. That's a long journey."

"Isn't it. At least we have a room. Here, the room number's on the tickets." He pushed one of the stubs across the table to Ricky, pocketing his own. "I'm going to find my suitcase to get a book. Do you want one?"

"Oh, I think I do. Pick me one you think I'd like?"

"No problem."

Ricky stood up too, smoothing down his shirt. "I'm going to ask some staff about Isabella and the kids. I know it's a slim chance, but it's a chance."

"Yes, it's worth it." Tinsley checked his watch, nodding. "Meet back here in half an hour?"

Ricky smiled. "See you then."

The staff were elusive, not to be found in the dark wood of the carriages towards the front of the train. Ricky had been planning on find the bar, questioning the bartender, as they always seemed to know what was what. At least, in movies they did. Yet Ricky was having no luck, not a uniform in sight, apart from in a quick flash out of the corner of his eye, which seemed to just be a flash off a shiny piece of glass each time. He could hear the steward, _no sir, you are not allowed in, I explained to you earlier, you do not have a first class ticket, sir- I'm sorry- sir! Excuse me!_ Ricky had no desire to follow the steward's voice and ask him any questions.

He stopped to light a cigarette behind a cupped hand, waving the match out, cracking a window and tossing the burnt match out before shutting the window again. He continued on down the small hallway, faint rattling coming from all around, rumbling wheels below. Outside, snow-swamped houses crept past, their lights seeming to flicker like candles.

He peered into a few empty rooms as he passed, hoping to catch a maid. All the rooms had bunk beds attached to the wall, a small bedside table with a lamp, and a single window. He scowled at the bunk beds. He had grown used to sleeping bundled up with Tinsley, especially as the weather had dropped so sharply. He moved towards the bottom bunk, squinting at it, trying to judge whether or not both he and Tinsley could fit. He wasn't sure.

“Mr Goldsworth.”

Ricky didn’t freeze. He was lucky. He spun, reflexively raising his arms to cover his head, and the blade sliced across his forearms, right where his neck would have been. He didn’t have time to yelp in pain, ducking under the next swipe, stumbling back against the bed, landing on the floor. For a split second all that existed was the suited man with his knife, and Ricky’s own breaths, raw and harsh in his throat, the only sound apart from his pulse hammering in his ears. Then Ricky was back on his feet, grabbing the lamp off the bedside table as he moved, using it to dash the man’s knife aside before striking him across the face with it on the way back, hard enough to snap the lampshade. He grabbed hold of the hitman’s arm as it came back around, biting it hard, hard enough for the man to yelp a curse, the knife clattering to the floor seconds later. Ricky punched him across the face, taking one in return, hard. He was shoved away like a bad dog before being followed and rammed into the wall hard enough for his head to strike back against it. He stumbled forward a step, dazed, brought back to his sense quick-sharp when the punch landed just below his ribs, doubling him up, and he dropped to his knees, one shaking hand pressed to the floor as he struggled to get air into his lungs. The blood was a bright, stinging red on his arms, dripping from the fresh cuts. He cursed as his head was wrenched back, and the knife gleamed in the soft snowy light through the window. He didn’t think of what it would feel like for the blade to open his throat. He only thought of his family, and Tinsley. His heart broke just at the thought of leaving him alone in the world; that thought alone could have killed him. It was more painful than any blade could possibly have been.

The hand let go of his hair, and he fell forwards, feeling his throat for the blood he was sure had been spilled. It was dry, his skin smooth, uncut. Behind him was the sound of spluttering, choking, grotesque. Ricky looked over his shoulder with wide, confused eyes, his brows drawing together at the sight of the Mayor holding a garrote tight enough to draw blood around the hitman’s neck. The hitman's face grew redder and redder, berry-red, his eyes going bloodshot. When the Mayor loosened the garrote, the man's body fell limp to the floor, slumping aside. Ricky remained on his knees, panting for breath, his arms trembling, bloodied.

"Don Ricardo, please." The Mayor came forward with his black-gloved hands, helping Ricky to his feet. "Are you alright? Let me see your arms."

"You- You saved my life." He spoke in disbelief, his mind still struggling to catch up with what had happened. "How did you- Who told you I was here?"

"Your mother told me. I assume her and Detective Horsley have been cooperating over your and Tinsley's disappearance." He dusted Ricky off, straightening his shirt collar. "I was quite behind for a few days, although at one point you must have pulled into somewhere, as I lost sight of your car. That was why I fell behind. I lost track of where you were going. Lucy contacted me only earlier, rang the car phone - she let me borrow her business car - to say you were in Union Station, and I ended up running for this train! I haven't run in years! And then that dastardly steward wouldn't let me into first class, not even when I explained that I just needed to check for a someone I knew. He was a downright snob."

Ricky hadn't blinked for the entire conversation. Then he checked his watch. Half an hour had passed. "Tinsley."

"Ah, yes."

Ricky ran, skidding around corners, sprinting down halls, and this time there was staff everywhere, blocking his way. They let out alarmed exclamations at the blood on his arms, but he didn't notice. All he noticed was Tinsley sitting at their table, a book open on the table in front of him, his head turned aside to check his watch. He looked up, his brows drawing together into a puzzled frown at the sight of the Mayor before shooting up at the sight of Ricky.

"My God." He abandoned his book, hurrying down the aisle to them, taking hold of Ricky's shoulders. "Ricky, what in the world happened to you? Are you okay? Do you feel alright?"

"I feel-"

"I'm sorry, but can I escort you both to your room?" The Mayor's pale eyes were flickering around the dining tables, observant, watchful. "I'm inclined to believe that man wasn't the only one on this train who wants to cause you harm."

Tinsley nodded, unable to take his eyes from Ricky. "Yes. Yes, do that."

He felt awful, truly, miserably awful. He had thought the train journey would help them. Instead they were stuck inside a closed space for forty-two hours with who knew how many assailants, and the only reason Ricky wasn't dead was pure luck. The staff were searching for a doctor or nurse to attend to the deep cuts on Ricky's arms. The Mayor stuck by Ricky and Tinsley until they reached their room, and he went in first, giving it a quick search - behind the door, below the beds, in the small corner bathroom - before stepping back out and letting them in.

"I'll stand watch outside."

Ricky nodded, seeming to have regained some dignity, his chin up. _"Grazie."_

He and Tinsley sat side-by-side on the bed for a few minutes in silence, the world whipping past outside, and all of a sudden Ricky started crying, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking with his sobs. Tinsley drew him into a comfortable embrace, arms wrapped around him, chin resting on his head. His eyes grew watery too as Ricky clung onto him, face buried in his chest, still crying uncontrollably, tired, hurt, worn. The Mayor let a woman into the room, a friendly nurse, and she was calm and patient and didn't comment on Ricky's red eyes and damp cheeks and didn't question why he clung onto Tinsley's hand as she stitched up the small but deep cuts in his skin. She left some painkillers when she was done, pausing at the door on her way out to say: "I'm sorry for what happened. It's always a frightening experience, and if it's any comfort, most men cry after being attacked like that."

Ricky smiled weakly. "Thank you."

"It's no problem. Any more problems, let me know."

The door slid shut. Ricky leaned against Tinsley, head on his shoulder, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. Tinsley told him he should rest. He would wake him for food. Ricky did as he was told, getting into his pajamas and burrowing under the covers. Tinsley sat on the side of the bed and brushed his hands through Ricky's hair until the man fell asleep, and for a long while after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i looked up train prices from union in chicago to portland and it says $189 so i popped it in the ol' currency calculator to see what the equivalent would be in 1950 and it was $40!! shit's loco


	24. Locomotion - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Which do you want - the pain of staying where you are, or the pain of growth?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning for violence and also mentions of domestic abuse toward the end :(

The train chugged peacefully, the sounds from outside dull. Sunlight, the soft gold of winter, filtered through the window. Tinsley peered outside, and he took only a quick moment to appreciate the view, the smooth, unruffled river below, the sea of pines trees stretching over hills like waves, far into the distance. He let the net curtain fall back into place, moving back to sit on the side of Ricky's bed. Ricky was asleep again. The painkillers the nurse had given him made him drowsy, but Tinsley didn't mind. He preferred to see Ricky asleep and peaceful than awake and panicked.

Tinsley checked his watch; it was almost eight in the morning. They'd be arriving into Portland later that day. Breakfast would be soon. He had best go and get something for Ricky. Yet when he attempted to stand, he felt the hand rest on his arm, fingers holding his elbow lightly. Ricky's eyes were still heavy with the effects of the painkillers, blinking slowly, and he was most likely still very much asleep. Tinsley settled back down for another few minutes, just until he was sure Ricky had drifted back to sleep again. He rested his hand on Ricky's where it still held him, and he let his fingers trace up along the bend of Ricky's arm to his shoulder, and then drift to the sharp jaw, feeling the stubble now rough there. He let his fingertips brush across Ricky's closed eyes, and down his straight nose, before resting on his lips, tracing him line for line. He felt Ricky's lips part against his fingers ever so slightly before a sleepy kiss was pressed to them. Ricky's eyes watched him, bleary, dark and glittering. Tinsley stroked Ricky's hair, pushing it back off his forehead, smiling at him.

"Are you hungry?"

A drowsy nod. He said something in Italian, which had been all he had spoken while in this half-asleep half-awake state. Tinsley raised his brows and said: "Coffee?"

Another nod. _"Sì, grazie."_

"Okay. You wait here and I'll be back soon."

Ricky's hand rested on his, gripping it for a moment, before he mumbled: _"Ti voglio tanto bene,_ Charlie."

Tinsley's heart skipped in his chest; the same name that his wife used to snap at him, that used to strike fear in his heart with its harshness, now sounded so sweet coming from Ricky. He pressed his lips together in a small smile before replying with a helpless: "I don't know what that means."

"It means he loves you very much," said the Mayor from the doorway.

Tinsley looked over his shoulder at him, but otherwise didn't respond. He still wasn't too sure what the Mayor thought of them being together. He was much too impenetrable, his face too still to be read. He could be disapproving, or he could be simply uncaring. Tinsley looked backed at Ricky. "...He's hungry."

"Then we had best get him up and ready."

"What?" Tinsley looked back at Ricky where the man had bundled himself back under the covers, only a few stray curls visible. "But he's tired."

"It's too risky to bring a plate of food here. A single plate of food is infinitely easier to poison than if we go to the dining car and get served along with everyone else." The Mayor had stood stoic outside the room all night, and he looked quite tired himself. He was probably hungry, too. "We should go together. I'll sit with you."

"You think there's a chance of poisoning?"

"I think there's a chance of anything until I get you to Isabella's." The Mayor had her address, courtesy of Holly and Banjo. A going-away gift to Tinsley, a separation pay of sorts. "We can talk about it more once you're both ready to listen properly. I'll give you some privacy." The door shut softly.

Tinsley gave Ricky a gentle shake, more of a rocking motion. Grumbles came from under the covers. "Hey, hon. Wake up. If you want food you have to wake up and get dressed."

Ricky rolled over, a sleepy frown on his face at the audacity of being woken. He blinked a few times. _"Acq-"_ He cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes. "Um, water. I'm thirsty."

"Sure." Tinsley crossed the small room to where the water jug and glasses rattled quietly. He poured a glass and carried it back over. "Here. Sit up or else you'll spill it."

Ricky gradually sat upright, still rubbing at his eyes, his movements heavy. "God, my head. Whatever painkillers that nurse gave me were much too strong for what I needed."

"They were all she had on her. Now c'mon, drink."

Ricky took the glass in both hands, and although he had intended on just taking a sip, he ended up swallowing the whole thing. He handed the glass back to Tinsley, who set it aside. "Thanks." He pulled the blankets back up over his chest, holding them in place. "How long was I asleep for?"

"All night. It was a blessing, really, since it's-" He checked his watch. "-another ten hours or so before we reach Portland." He looked back at Ricky, cupping his face, looking into his eyes. "But how are you feeling? Still a bit shook up?"

A nod. "Yes. I don't know why. I've seen worse." His voice lowered to a murmur. "I've done worse."

"It was frightening for everyone." He leaned forward, kissing him on the forehead. "Let's get you something to eat, okay?"

"Okay."

Ricky got dressed slowly, shrugging a shirt on, buttoning it up wonky. Tinsley redid it for him with a small smile. He fixed his collar around his neck before drawing him forwards into a gentle kiss, thumbs brushing his cheeks.

"Better?"

Ricky nodded, leaning forwards against him, head on his chest. He mumbled: "Better."

There was a light knocking on the door, and the Mayor poked his head in. He seemed unperturbed by the sight of them wrapped up in each other. "I can hear breakfast being served. And I can smell it. Quite delicious."

Ricky rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, careful around the stitches on his arms, before tucking his gun into the back of his belt. Tinsley did similar.

They found themselves a table, different to the one Ricky and Tinsley had sat in the day before. Ricky sat between the Mayor and the window, and Tinsley sat across from him. Ricky wolfed down a monumental amount of scrambled egg, bacon, and toast, and a whole sea of coffee with it. He hadn't noticed how hungry he was. Tinsley barely touched his food, his gaze constantly flickering around the other tables, even more so than the Mayor's. He was visibly anxious, sipping at his coffee at regular intervals. The Mayor himself was entirely casual, eating as if at a normal diner at home, slow and steady, just another day in the life. Tinsley eventually spoke up.

"How many people on average do you think might be, well, after Ricky?"

The Mayor swallowed his mouthful of bacon and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before answering. "It's difficult to say. Once word got out that you were to board a train, it provided a focus point of sorts for any pursuers." He pushed his fork under some egg, using his knife to gather it up neatly. It scraped against the plate. "You're lucky that steward is so strict with tickets."

Tinsley turned his head to give Ricky a long look, which was responded to with a dismissive toss of his head. Tinsley rolled his eyes.

"Well then I should be safe enough now, yes?" said Ricky, pointedly ignoring Tinsley's eye roll.

"It's impossible to say for certain," replied the Mayor. "Maybe no, maybe yes. The people who sent that hitman after you must really want you dead. I recognized the name on his ID; he's quite high up. Not as good as me, obviously, but good nonetheless."

Ricky nodded. "Where's the body? I'd like to have a look myself."

The Mayor resumed eating. "We passed a ravine a few hours ago." That was the end of that line of questioning.

Ricky looked back at Tinsley. "You're not eating. You should eat."

"I'm not hungry. My stomach's in knots."

"It's important you eat! Especially now."

"I'm not used to this sort of... stuff. The danger and all." Tinsley rubbed at the back of his neck, fingers under his shirt collar. "I feel too on edge to eat. I'll get sick."

Ricky raised his brows, his bottom lip pushing out in the beginnings of a pout. "For me?"

Tinsley gave him a flat look. Then he picked up his fork and started bringing food from plate to mouth, chewing moodily, as Ricky looked on with a satisfied smile. Ricky accepted another coffee from a waiter. He hadn't managed to bring it to his mouth before the Mayor's hand rested on it, taking it away.

"That waiter just went straight back to the kitchen with that pot," he muttered, peering into the cup. "Didn't offer a single other person anything."

Ricky swallowed hard. "Oh. I didn't notice."

"We'll have to be vigilant, you understand?" The Mayor gave the coffee a sniff. "Mm. Almonds. Cyanide."

Tinsley spluttered through his mouthful of food. "What?! Really?"

"Calm down," said the Mayor with a reproachful glance. "Act casual. You have pistols on you, I assume?"

Ricky and Tinsley nodded.

"Good." He gave his mouth another wipe with a napkin before getting to his feet. "Then I will be right back. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, return to your room."

Ricky looked him over quickly. "Do _you_ have a gun?"

"No."

He ignored the stunned looks on their faces; he may not have a gun, but he was bristling with weapons nonetheless. The garrote he had used on the hitman was in his trouser pocket. The fountain pen in the breast pocket of his waistcoat contained nothing but a long, razor-tipped knife, and the pin in his lapel was not a pin but a four-inch long blade. He preferred quiet deaths, when he had the choice. He moved off toward where the waiter had disappeared, into kitchens of some sort.

He could hear the clanging of pots and pans and chefs calling over each other. The waiter was coming toward him with a pot of coffee, most likely now unpoisoned. He seemed unsettled, his face waxy, and he let out a genuine yelp of surprise when the Mayor's forearm hit against his throat and slammed him back against the wall with little warning. The pot cracked against the floor, coffee leaking out in all directions. The Mayor spoke calmly.

"Why did you try to poison Don Ricardo."

For a moment, it seemed like the waiter was going to attempt to lie, but he thought better of it under the cold gaze of the Mayor. His voice shook nonetheless. "I was paid. Just twenty minutes ago. I was given a tablet of cyanide and told to poison the Italian man at the far table and in return he gave me-"

"Who told you to do this," said the Mayor impatiently. "That is all I want to know. Point him out to me."

The waiter nodded, crumbling immediately. "Yes. Yes, of course."

The Mayor followed him back to the door, waiting for the hitman to be pointed out. The waiter paused, glancing around, blinking rapidly.

"He's gone."

"Gone, huh?"

"He is! He is, I promise. He-"

The Mayor yanked him back into the hallway, pinning him to the wall by one shoulder. "Describe him to me."

"He was- He was about forty perhaps? And he was wearing a, um, a black suit, and I think a- a dark blue tie." He stumbled over his words as he rushed to get them out. "And he had silver cufflinks, I think. Silver something. Could have been a watch?"

"His face. Describe it."

"Thin. A thin face and little eyes. And brown hair."

The Mayor narrowed his eyes at the waiter, searching his sweating face closely, very closely, before all of a sudden stepping back and taking his hand from the waiter's shoulder. "Thank you-" He glimpsed the name badge. "-Tim."

"...You're welcome?"

The Mayor moved back into the dining car, crossing to the table, where Tinsley and Ricky were waiting expectantly. He sat down. "No luck. The waiter was hired by someone. Did you see anyone leave this car in the last few minutes?"

Tinsley nodded. "Two people. At the end of the car. Sitting at that table in the corner."

"Two? What did they look like?"

"I don't know. I didn't think much of them, I didn't look close enough."

Ricky pushed a hand back through his hair, elbow set on the table. "Well- Well what if we just stay here until we get to Portland? At this table?"

"No, absolutely not," said the Mayor sternly. "We can't have two hitmen following us to Isabella's. That would be a disaster." He got to his feet, smoothing his waistcoat down. "You two stay here. I will go to find them. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Ricky took hold of his wrist, eyes concerned. "There's two. You're only one."

"I've managed in worse odds, _signore."_

Ricky shook his head. "No. I can handle myself. I'll go with you."

Tinsley almost spat his coffee out. "Are you insane? No!"

Ricky stared at him, one brow arched. "Are you going to try and dictate orders to me now? Hm?"

"I'm going to try and talk some sense into you, more accurately," replied Tinsley with just as much attitude. "You're still drowsy from those painkillers. I mean, look at how much coffee you've dribbled over the past five minutes. Like a child. Would I let a child try and fend off two hitmen? Would you?"

Ricky wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, glowering at the few stains on his shirt and on the table. "I'm not a child."

"I think that's enough bickering," said the Mayor, all business. "Don Ricardo, I would advise that you stay here. I will be back soon."

The Mayor moved on, and Ricky lapsed into a huff, slouched in his seat, arms folded across his chest. He glared out the window. After a few minutes he muttered: "I would have been fine."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ricardo. You-"

 _"Ricardo?_ You're going to talk to me like my mother now?" Ricky snorted. "Apologies, _C_ _harles."_

Tinsley rolled his eyes. "You're just fed up sitting around. You want to be an action man. Well, this isn't a movie. This is real life, and you're in danger."

"I can handle myself. I can handle myself better than you can handle yourself."

Tinsley sighed wearily. "You're entirely missing the point here, and I think you're doing it on purpose."

Ricky suddenly sat forward again, letting his folded arms land on the table with a rattle of delph and cutlery. "I _am_ sick of sitting around, if you must know. What if the Mayor doesn't come back? What then? We'll have to do something."

"Then- Then let's just wait for half an hour! Just wait!"

"Don't snap at me!"

 _"You're_ snapping at _me!_ And-"

Ricky suddenly made a cutting motion with both hands, holding them in the air. "Hush! Enough! We are done here!"

"For God's sake, Ricky, just-"

 _"P_ _er amor del cielo,_ quiet!" He gave a sudden jump. "Did- Did you just kick me under the table?"

"No."

"You did! I felt it!"

"I crossed my legs and accidentally gave you a tap, alright? I just-" Tinsley let his head drop into his hand, covering his eyes, and he let out a sharp sigh. "Christ."

They sat sulking for ten minutes or so, throwing sidelong scowls at each other, staying quiet as a waiter cleared away their table. Tinsley picked at the edge of the tablecloth, plucking out threads of white linen. Eventually Ricky spoke up.

"I'm sorry for snapping," he mumbled.

Tinsley let his shoulders move in a small shrug. "It's okay. I'm sorry for snapping too."

"The whole situation, it- it's stressful."

"It sure is." Tinsley bit on his lip for a moment. "And I'm sorry for kicking you."

"Ah, I knew it." Ricky laughed. "You are as much a child as I am."

They smiled at each other, fond, until Ricky's smile dropped, his eyes going serious as he spotted something over Tinsley's shoulder. Tinsley went to turn in his seat, but he needn't have bothered. The same waiter as before stopped at their table, panic clear on his face as he said: "Your friend, he- he's in trouble. I saw him in the luggage room. I think I saw blood, I wasn't sure, but I just thought I should-"

Ricky was already on his feet, pushing past him with a muttered _thank you._ He heard Tinsley follow immediately, grabbing his arm as they reached the exit of the dining car.

"Ricky, hold on." He was pale, frightened, but trying to hide it. "What's your plan here?"

Ricky took the gun from his belt, holding it up, turning the safety off. "This is my plan. I believe you have a similar one?"

"We need to-"

"We need to stop hesitating," said Ricky, moving out into the hallway, where the train's _chug-chug-chugging_ was louder, and sunlight streamed through the windows against the warm wood of the hall. "If he's in trouble, the sooner we find him, the better."

The first class luggage room was more of a luggage car, taking up a large section of the train itself between first class and economy. Ricky pushed open the door with his shoulder, raising the gun, and found no sign of the Mayor. No blood. No suitcases knocked asunder or bags out of place. He moved between a few, listening intently, gun held at his side.

"Mayor? Are-" He switched to Italian, secretive. _"Sei qui?"_

Only the train's dull rattling responded. Tinsley swallowed, lingering by the door, his own grip tight but sweaty on his gun. "This isn't right. We should-"

"Shh. I see something."

It was two pairs of legs, sticking out from underneath some suitcases, hidden away at the back. Ricky slipped his gun into his belt, hefting the cases out of the way, hearing Tinsley join him as he stared at the two bodies. One was the waiter with the poisoned coffee. He was wearing normal clothes, his waiter's garb taken. The other body was the steward, who had been so vigilant about first class tickets. Their throats were cut. Tinsley knelt down beside them, reaching out, feeling both of their hands. He straightened up and said: "Warm."

Ricky stared at them, eyes glazed. "No Mayor."

"No." Tinsley looked at him, eyes wide. "We have to get off this train. At the next stop. Promise me."

"Okay. Okay, I promise. But I-"

Ricky's head whipped around at the sound of something Tinsley didn't hear, and Ricky didn't manage to get his gun from his belt before the kick hit him square in the chest, the suitcases tumbing to the floor as he fell back against them, the gun clattering to the ground. Tinsley spun, and for the first time in his life he punched someone. He was certain it hurt his hand more than it hurt their face. It mustn't have hurt that much anyway, because he was punched back almost instantly, right on his nose, hard enough to blind him, but he didn't need sight to feel the blood run thick and warm over his lips and down his chin, dripping into his cupped hands, and he didn't need sight to hear Ricky cursing furiously, the sounds of a fierce struggle ensuing. Tinsley stumbled over some luggage, fumbling his gun from his belt, his hands automatically readying it, holding it steady, there was still some detective in him yet. He tried to take aim, but the fight was happening too messily, Ricky and the hitman entangled, a flash of a blade every few seconds, but no blood, not yet. Ricky let out a furious curse as a fistful of his hair was grabbed, and he was dragged forwards, his hands clawing at the hitman's arm hard enough to break the skin. He was jerked aside as the hitman was shoved against a stack of suitcases by Tinsley, and Ricky took the split second of surprise to wrench the knife from the hitman's hand, freeing his hair from the man's grip with a hard shake of his head. The hitman’s hand landed on the nearest suitcase for balance, and Ricky fell against it too, driving the knife down through the man’s splayed hand, pinning it to the patteerned wood of the case, hearing the scream he let out. Tinsley scrambled for his gun on the floor, crying out as the hitman’s foot landed hard on his wrist, hard enough for something to crack. The hitman wrenched the knife from his hand, swiping it aside at Ricky, who threw himself backwards with such haste he fell over himself and landed flat on his back on the floor, his head striking back against it hard enough to make his vision flash black. The hitman came at him again, knife flashing, his hand bleeding freely, and he stumbled as Tinsley latched around his leg, pulling at him, desperate, angry. The hitman grabbed a fistful of his hair, dragging him forwards before wrenching his head back and bringing the knife to his throat. Tinsley reflexively grabbed hold of the blade before it could reach its target, but he hardly felt it bite into his fingers, the adrenaline made him numb, his blood was roaring in his ears. Ricky half-ran half-crawled toward them, catching the hitman with a flying tackle, forcing him away from Tinsley. They fell in a heap on the floor, Ricky focusing on holding the knife away, taking the punches to his ribs that he was now open to with gritted teeth. Tinsley hurried over, his bloodied hands shaking too much to hold the hitman’s free hand down, so he used his knee instead, panting for breath.

“Get the knife,” growled Ricky, one hand holding the hitman’s head against the floor, covering his face, the other holding the knife away. “Get the knife off him and kill him.”

Tinsley went still, eyes large. “What?”

“Kill him!” Ricky glared over his shoulder at Tinsley. “Take the knife and kill him or else he’ll kill us!”

“I- I can’t.” Tinsley swallowed hard. “I’ve never- I’ve never killed someone like this, with a- a knife. I can’t do it.”

“Tinsley, kill him! For God’s sake!”

“Ricky I _can’t,_ I can’t just-”

“Then use the gun.” Ricky raised his brows when Tinsley didn’t move to take it. “Are you serious? He tried to kill us. He tried to kill _you_ literally ten seconds ago. Take the fucking gun and shoot him! You did it before!”

“I can’t just-”

 _“Mannaggia a Te,_ Tinsley! Fine!” He took his hand off the hitman’s head, wresting the knife from the man’s hand. “Look away if you’re going to be squeamish about it.”

Tinsley looked away. He squeezed his eyes shut, covering his ears with his wrists, seeing as his hands stung too harshly to be of any use. He could still feel it. He felt the man under him convulsing, horrifically. He went still surprisingly quickly. Tinsley always imagined it to go on longer. 

He opened his eyes, keeping them on the floor, unblinking. He only turned his head when he heard the clatter of the knife being thrown aside, and he watched Ricky get to his feet and cross to the nearest suitcase to wipe his bloody hands on a piece of clothing hanging out, all with his back to Tinsley. Ricky leaned with one hand on the case and the other on his hip, like he’d just come back from a stressful day at the office. Tinsley looked down at his hands, at the gashes left by the hitman’s knife. He hadn’t imagined any of this would happen.

“Tinsley…”

He lifted his head at Ricky’s soft voice. “What?”

“You have to…” An exasperated sigh. Ricky turned back to face him, and the front of his shirt was splattered with red. “I had to do that. But I’m sorry I snapped at you. I shouldn’t have pressured you like that. I wasn’t thinking straight. I just- Christ, Tinsley, your hands!”

He hurried over, guiding Tinsley to his feet, holding the man’s hands palm-up to examine the cuts. They were still bleeding, shining wetly. He raised his gaze to Tinsley’s to speak, but he couldn’t get a word out at the look on Tinsley’s face. It broke his heart.

“No. No, don’t be afraid of me. Don’t.” Ricky eyes were prickling with hot tears. “Don’t look at me like that. Please.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Tinsley, his voice hoarse. He couldn't look at the dead man on the floor. “There must have been some other way.”

“There wasn’t. There wasn’t. Tinsley, please, just hear me out-”

“I don’t know…”

“I gave up everything to be with you,” said Ricky, firmly, his voice unwavering. “I didn’t give up everything to come all this way and die at the hands of some- some low-grade hitman. You have to understand.”

“Ricky-”

“When you shot Luca Calvi, you said you did that because you saw I was in danger. You said it was a necessity to you at that time. You said it made you understand why I sometimes hurt people.” Ricky swallowed. “To extreme evils, extreme remedies. Yes?”

Tinsley didn’t reply for a moment, because he did remember. He remembered the panic that had spiked through him at the thought of Ricky dying in front of him. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Ricky’s, letting out a shaky breath through his nose before whispering: “…Yes.”

Ricky's teary eyes almost overflowed with relief, his lips pressing together in a line. "I'm sorry you had to see me like that. I'm sorry. But- But listen to me." He kept a hand around the back of Tinsley's neck, keeping their gazes locked, and his voice was sincere if shaky. "I promise you'll never see me like that again. Once we get to where we're going, I'll leave that behind. Gladly. I will. But we just need to get where we're going first. Yes?"

Another deep breath, another nod. "Yes." He sniffed, the tears beginning to pour down his cheeks, though not for the reason expected. His voice was mumbled. "My hands hurt. And my wrist. I think it got broken. It hurts really bad."

"We'll find that nurse. Come on. Quick."

* * *

They sat in their room in silence. The Mayor was back on the door, having made quick work of the other hitman while Ricky and Tinsley had struggled desperately in the next car. The nurse had made Tinsley a makeshift sling out of a shirt, and had bound his hands with fabric and gauze from the medicine kit on board. She had been entirely, entirely puzzled as to what these two men kept running into on this train, but again, she didn't ask questions; she knew better than to get involved. Tinsley turned his hands over, looking at how they were wrapped up like mittens all the way to his knuckles. He couldn't move them too much, they stung madly. His wrist was a duller pain, throbbing. His nose ached too, and it caused him to speak rather thickly.

"Do you have any of those painkillers left?" 

Ricky gave him one, and a glass of water with it. He did so in silence. He had been mostly silent since they had returned to the room, his head turned aside, ashamed. He kneeled down on the floor, resting his head on Tinsley's leg, weary. He turned to hide his face against Tinsley's leg, hands clutching it.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," said Tinsley. He went to run his hand through the man's hair, quickly realizing he was unable to, with the pain and the bandages. "You don't have to keep saying it. I understand."

"I can't say it enough." His voice was exhausted, tearfully so. "I don't ever want you to think of me as- as some sort of monster. A killer. I can't even say I've never done it before. I've murdered people. With my own hands."

Tinsley stayed quiet for a moment. He didn't know how to react, he didn't know what to say. "...It's strange. In a way I'm thankful you could fight back like you did. I was useless. Who knows what would have happened if one of us wasn't able to take a hit."

Ricky swallowed. "I'm a little bit used to it."

"Did you get in fights a lot?" Tinsley tried a smile. "I could imagine you getting in a few heated arguments as a teenager."

"No. No, I didn't get in fights a lot." Ricky's eyes were distant, watching the carpeted floor, his cheek still pressed to Tinsley's leg. "My dad used to hit me a lot. He used to hit me and my sister. He told us it helped to build character. That's what he used to tell my mom too when she'd tell him to stop."

Tinsley didn't talk. There was nothing he could say that would be of any help to the conversation. Ricky continued on.

"He stopped hitting my sister when she turned sixteen. Just like that-" He clicked his fingers. "-she was a young lady and had to be treated as such. Not a finger was laid on her. But he kept hitting me. He used to hit me whenever I annoyed him. With his hand." He mimicked a backslap, sharp. "Like that. Across my face. Usually at family events, as if to show everyone I wasn't worthy of respect. Because he knew about me. He knew I was gay. But he stopped hitting me when I hit him back."

"...Christ, Ricky."

"I was probably twenty-two or twenty-three. We were having some argument after dinner, and he slapped me. I hit him back so hard I bet his head rang for days." A small laugh. "Best day of my life." He turned his head, resting his chin on Tinsley's leg, silent. "Nonnina was sitting at the table, and she saw it, and all she said was _hai voluto la bicicletta? Allora, pedala._ You wanted a bike, now pedal." He swallowed hard. "He made me like this, I think. Prone to violence. Quick to react to things that annoy me. Volatile. Rash. I don't know. In my head, violence is always the first answer to things. But would I be like that if he didn't raise me to think like that?"

Tinsley's could feel his own eyes growing warm. He spoke quietly. "Is that why you were so angry when you found out about me and my wife?"

"Yes." Ricky looked up at him, the vulnerability on his face painful. "I couldn't bear the thought of you getting treated like that. I just couldn't. I owe you too much for what you've done for me. If you hadn't come along, what would have happened to me? I would have grown up to be just like my dad, harming everyone around me, thinking I was doing the right thing." He moved to kneel between Tinsley's legs, hands resting on the man's hips as he gazed up at him, eyes wet with tears, looking as if he was barely holding himself together. His voice trembled. "You made me want to change. You deserve the world, Charlie. And I'm sorry I can't give it to you. But you have to know that I love you, I love you so much, and I will love you forever, no matter what happens."

"I love you too," whispered Tinsley, cupping his face lightly, it was worth the pain in his hands.

"Then I'm living for no other reason than to make sure you keep loving me," said Ricky, his voice breaking, the tears dripping down his cheeks. "You're the only one for me in this world."

Tinsley drew him in against his chest, letting him sob into his shirt, one arm around him, the other still in its sling. He kissed the top of Ricky's head, feeling how the man's hands clung onto him like he was a lifeboat in stormy waters, and he realized that he would kill for Ricky too, without a doubt, without hesitation. Nothing, no one had ever meant so much to him.

They eventually separated, Tinsley drowsy with the medication, and as he slept Ricky sentinelled his bedside, until they reached Portland. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this club has everything!! domesticity, tenderness, knife fights, true love


	25. No Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Here is how I spend my days now. I live in a beautiful place. I sleep in a beautiful bed. I eat beautiful food. I go for walks through beautiful places. I care for people deeply. At night my bed is full of love. I cry easily, from pain and pleasure, and I don't apologize for that. In the mornings I step outside and I'm thankful for another day. It took me many years to arrive at such a life."_

The rain had fallen quite heavy overnight. She didn’t mind. It washed some of the snow away, melted it from the roof. It would make it easier to walk to the grocery store in the morning. She never used to have to walk to the grocery store. She never used to have to do her own grocery shopping at all.

She lived in a single-story house now, although it spread over a generous portion of land, containing various rooms, some which she still had no use for. It was different from the shiny newness of her old house, but she didn’t mind. It kept her and the kids warm and dry, and she had begun to realize that that was all that mattered; family, and a place to come home to. She realized not everyone had this. Every week she gave to charities for homelessness, an anonymous donation of the hundreds of dollars she no longer needed. She didn’t buy ridiculously expensive clothing anymore. She didn’t wine and dine out every other night. She wore comfortable jeans and jumpers and boots, and she dressed Lorenzo and the twins similarly. She made sure they were fed well, with help from some of the locals, and a farmer or two down the road. To them, she was not Isabella Garafalo. She was Lizzy. Just Lizzy. The single mother who moved in down the road with her children. Down the road with only five other houses on it, a path from one thicket of pines to the next, isolated and quiet. It was perfect.

Lorenzo and the twins adored the place. It was wild and open, and there was a river nearby, and they had taken in a stray cat - ginger and white, with the most delicate of patterns on the snub nose that marked the front of its round face - and it had swiftly grown plump over the few months. Pesca, they called it. Peach. Izzy welcomed it into the family, in an attempt to try and deal with the losses of her mother and brother. She missed Lucy terribly, but she missed Ricky so much it broke her heart over and over again. Sometimes one of the children would come up to her and ask ‘Mamma, when will Zio Ricky be here?’ and she would lie over and over again - soon, soon, soon. She wished she had their sweet naivety. 

The papers were piled on her bedside table, she had gathered them daily, stressing constantly about Ricky and his reported disappearance. Seeing his picture in the papers, black-and-white, smiling, was enough to sometimes bring her to tears. She prayed every night to the heavens for him to be alive and well. Some articles had mentioned an accomplice, just a small, minor description of a tall American man. She clung onto the hope that it was Tinsley, and that he was doing what she had asked him to do; keep Ricky safe.

She washed the dishes from breakfast at the sink, as she did every morning, her gaze distracted out the window, as it was every morning. The view was a stretch of grass, wet and patched with half-melted snow, and then the pines, and beyond them the river. It never froze. At night she was sure she could always hear it rushing. A tug at her sleeve didn’t quite catch her attention. She hummed a distracted response to whatever Marta said. Her sleeve was tugged on more adamantly.

“Mamma, listen!”

“Sorry, _amore_. Mamma was thinking. What is it?”

“The tall man with the black coat is outside!”

Izzy’s heart stopped. It froze with fear, the cold spreading through her blood, all over her body. “Who?”

“The tall man with the black coat and hat and gloves! Nonna’s friend!”

 _Nonna’s friend?_ Izzy’s brows drew together. “...The Mayor?”

“It’s true,” said Lorenzo from the doorway, holding onto the frame. “His car is outside right now. I saw it.”

Izzy stood with her hands dripping foamy water. “Are you certain? You’re absolutely certain, Lorenzo?”

“Yes, mamma.”

She hurriedly wiped her hands on the towel, leading the children out onto the porch, the roof of which was still dripping with the earlier rain, little crystal beads gleaming. It was indeed the Mayor’s car, shining with wet. He was helping someone heave suitcases out of the boot, a tall someone, who seemed unable to use one of his arms. It was tied up in a sling. Her heart froze again at the sight of a third man getting out on the opposite side of the car, his dark curls lifting slightly in the cool breeze, his arms folded to hug his black coat more snugly to himself. She wasn’t sure if it was him. His hair was unruly, unstyled, and from where she was she could see he was sporting the beginnings of a beard, a dark layer of stubble on his cheeks and chin. Any doubts were dashed the second he looked at her. She inhaled sharply.

“Ricky?”

He was already circling the car, hurrying down the small path to the house. “Izzy. Izzy, you’re here, it’s true.” He hugged her tightly, and she hugged him back just as tightly, and just like that the tears began spilling, with happiness, with relief. He stepped back, holding her at arm’s length with a wobbling smile that was threatening to break at any second. He could feel the children clinging onto his legs, their delighted squeals making his heart weak. “I’m so happy to see you. It was a mistake sending you out here. It was a mistake to send any of you out here.” He crouched down, hugging all three of the kids at once, letting them swarm him with excited yammering he couldn’t wait to hear in more detail. “Did you miss me, yes?”

A chorus of affirmations. Isabella tapped his shoulder, and he looked up, before following her gaze to where Tinsley stood a few metres away, with the Mayor, surrounded by luggage. He looked much worse off than Ricky did; his eyes were blackened somewhat, and not only was his arm in a sling, but his hands were bound with gauze. He was still smiling nonetheless, watching the scene, apart from it. Isabella looked back down at Ricky and said: “He helped you?”

Ricky nodded. “In more ways than you can imagine.”

She raised her head, waving Tinsley over. “Come here already. I can’t give you a hug and a kiss from over there!”

The greetings and reunions took a while to dwindle to a halt, spilling into the hallway, until Izzy shepherded the kids into the sitting room so the adults could have some alone time. The Mayor took care of the cases as Izzy readied coffee in the kitchen, the moka heating up on the cooker. She carried the steaming mugs over, and Ricky eagerly took his, tasting a mouthful before sighing dreamily.

“Oh, Isabella. It’s been so long since I’ve had good coffee, you have no idea.”

"Why? How did you two find me?" She looked at Tinsley. "And what happened to you?"

"We drove for the first part," said Ricky, holding his mug in both hands. "Until Chicago. Then we got the train to Portland. A nightmare on wheels."

She didn't need to guess. "You were followed."

"Yes."

"It was partially my mistake," said Tinsley, quiet. "I shouldn't have suggested the train. We should have just driven."

"We had to take it," said Ricky firmly. "The snows were much too heavy on the way for a car to get through. I said that already."

Izzy leaned against the kitchen counter, watching them. She noticed how Ricky sat with his legs angled toward Tinsley, and vice versa, and their eye contact was heavy and meaningful, sincere. "Why did you both come out here? It's a long way from home."

"Exactly." Ricky raised an eyebrow at her. "And don't act as if you didn't know."

"Know what?" she replied with feigned innocence. "That you two dined out together and called each other up in the middle of the night and stared longingly at the back of each other's heads ten times a minute?" She laughed. "I think I knew you two liked each other before either of you even knew."

"Oh, shush."

"Tell me, have you shared true love's first kiss yet?"

Tinsley flushed pink, stifling a smile, while Ricky lifted his chin and replied with a haughty: “As a matter of fact, we did.”

“I didn’t miss that attitude,” said Izzy with a grin. It softened into a small smile before she said: “I’m happy for you. For both of you. I truly am. You suit each other.”

Tinsley smiled. “Thank you.”

Isabella raised her brows. "But what happened to you anyway, Tinsley? You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards."

He and Ricky took turns explaining what had happened on board the train, and how the Mayor had ensured that they made it from A to B in one piece. Tinsley told her about Holly's warning over the phone, and how she and Banjo had provided the Mayor with Izzy's address, and Ricky reenacted the fights on the train, barely remaining in his seat he was so enthralled in his own story-telling. Izzy nodded and gasped and frowned at all the right times, sipping away at her coffee. Eventually she said: "And what about ma?"

Ricky sat back. "Did you know she had stayed at home?"

Izzy looked at Tinsley, who seemed somewhat ashamed. "Yes, I knew."

"So neither of you told me."

Izzy went to reply, but to her surprise, Tinsley spoke up first. "Ricky, you said you understood."

"I said I understood why _you_ didn't tell me, not why-"

"Probably for the same reason I didn't," said Tinsley, not aggressive, but firm. "There's no point in starting an argument now. It's all over."

Izzy waited for Ricky to snap back, to let his temper flare, but he didn't. He simply sat in a huff for a moment or so, lips pressed in a line, arms folded across his chest. He eventually took a sip of coffee and said: "Ma is fine. She's at home. If she wants to find us, she can. But maybe she won't even want to come all the way over here. She was always better at running the _plaza_ than I was, even better than dad was."

Izzy nodded. "She was, wasn't she." A sip of coffee. "Either way, I'd like to send her a letter to let her know we're here and safe."

"Why haven't you done so before?"

"I would have," she replied, defensive. "But a letter can be traced back to where it was sent from. I can give it to the Mayor and he can bring it back to the city. Are you done your coffees?"

A nod from each.

"Then you should have a rest," she said with a smile. "Not to insult, but you both look awful, and you're both tired and grumpy."

Ricky looked at her with large eyes. "But I want to see the kids and say hi. Properly."

"Ricky, get some sleep. They'll still be here in the morning."

Ricky looked at Tinsley, and Tinsley simply gave a weary nod. Ricky looked back at her and said: "Okay."

They said goodbye and thanks to the Mayor in the hall, who insisted he couldn't stay the night, and had to get home, and back to work. Ricky took his signet ring off, taking the Mayor's hand and pressing it into his palm. The Mayor stared at him.

"I can't take this, _signore._ It's your family's."

"You are family, James," said Ricky, stern but kind. "And this is to remind you. Always."

The Mayor continued staring at him for a moment, before suddenly ducking his head with a sniff. He put his hat on, hiding his eyes behind the brim, only raising his head when he was sure the tears weren't going to spill. "Thank you, Ricardo. It's been an honour to serve under you. And I'll continue to serve your mother too. I promise."

Isabella smiled, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

The Mayor nodded, giving her a rare smile. Then he turned away, heading back out to his car, footsteps crunching on the wet stones. He had just sat behind the wheel when he heard other footsteps approaching, and a tap on the window. Tinsley gestured for him to roll it down, which the Mayor did, brows raised curiously. Tinsley passed a book to him, new and clean and fresh-paged. He smiled.

"Chandler came out with a new one a few days ago. I picked it up at that last town we stopped in. I was going to keep it but, well, I want you to have it. For what you've done for us. It's the least I could do."

The Mayor looked at him before opening the book to the first page. _Playback_ was printed in block letters, but at the top was a hastily written message in blue ink; _Un vero amico arriva giusto in tempo, non quando ha tempo._ A real friend arrives just in time, not when they have time. It was signed by all three - Tinsley, Ricky, and Isabella, and underneath the shakier letters of the children, and a line of x's. He closed it over quickly, a lump forming in his throat. He nodded, looking back up at Tinsley, before forcing out a choked: "Thank you."

Tinsley smiled, giving his shoulder a half-squeeze with his bandaged hand, before turning away and heading back toward the house to join the others. They waved until the car was out of view, off into the trees, the way it had come.

Isabella showed them to their room, drawing the curtains for them, turning on the bedside lamp, just to make it cozy, before leaving them on their own. They got undressed for bed, and when they crawled under the covers, they fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

_**Six months later.** _

The sun beat down from the blue sky above, but Ricky didn't mind. He was occupied, on his knees in front of the flowerbed, one of Izzy's net hats clamped on over his hair and shades on, picking the weeds from the soil, tossing them side into the bucket. The flowers themselves were flourishing; chrysanthemums, dahlias, zinnias, all his favourites. He could hear the radio playing through the kitchen window, hear the clattering of plates being cleared from the table, the chattering of the kids. He could hear the river rushing behind the far pines, and he could hear birds singing sweetly. He sat back at the sound of approaching footsteps, slow and calm ones, the ones he loved.

Tinsley crouched down beside him, handing him a glass of cool lemonade. "Here, hon. Izzy made it fresh."

Ricky pulled off his thick gardening gloves before taking it. "Thanks."

"You have dirt on your face."

"Oh, do I? What a shock."

"Look at me a minute." Tinsley brushed the mark off Ricky's cheek with his thumb, cupping his face when he was done. "There we go. Squeaky clean. And _oh_ so handsome."

Ricky kept his eyes closed, a small smile on his face, waiting for the kiss he knew would come. Tinsley pressed it to his forehead, soft, before straightening back up and heading to his chair on the porch, kicking his feet up on the wooden rail. The cat came along and curled up on his lap into a little ginger croissant. It seemed particularly fond of Tinsley, to such an extent that at night it had taken to trying to sleep on him in bed, which Ricky would simply not stand for. He would not, could not, share Tinsley with anyone.

"It's a _cat,_ honey!" Tinsley watched Ricky carrying it to the door in the middle of the night, determinedly setting it down outside on its four paws. It meowed its protests from outside the door. "Are you really so jealous of a cat?"

"Yes." Ricky crawled back into his side of the bed, and then into Tinsley's side, sitting across his hips. He leaned down, murmuring the words against Tinsley's lips. "It was in the way."

"...I see."

Ricky kissed him, slowly, deeply, hands cupping his face, feeling Tinsley's hands slip under his pajama shirt and take hold of his waist, thumbs pressing into him. Ricky sat back, peeling his shirt off over his head, tossing it aside before leaning back down and kissing Tinsley with renewed vigor, rocking his hips back and forth slowly, tempting a low moan from Tinsley's mouth. He loved the sound; low, rough, warm. He kissed Tinsley's neck, working his way down his body, his messy-haired head vanishing under the covers. Tinsley lay back and closed his eyes, biting on his lip to keep his moans quiet. They had to stay quiet, as Isabella had ordered after the first few nights. The children's rooms were just down the hall, and Ricky and Tinsley had been going through their honeymoon phase, finally safe to do so. She had been more critical of Ricky, however, who tended not to hold himself back when it came to letting his pleasure be known.

 _"I heard Mia curse the other day,"_ she scolded, drying the plates while Ricky washed. _"I wonder where she heard that, hm? Any ideas?"_

Ricky gave her a sidelong look. _"It could have been Tinsley."_

_"Last time I heard, Tinsley doesn't curse in Italian."_

Ricky tutted. _"Fine. Sorry. I didn't notice."_

Isabella continued drying the plate in her hand, slowly. _"So he's good to you, yes?"_

Ricky smiled, almost smugly. _"He knows what I like."_

 _"Mm."_ She rolled her eyes. _"Sounds like it."_

Tinsley looked up from his book. "What are you talking about? I heard my name."

"Nothing, _amore mio,"_ said Ricky airily, drying his hands on the front of his shirt as he turned away from the sink.

"Hm." Tinsley narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. "I'll learn it one day, you know. Then no more secret conversations around ol' Tinsley."

Ricky crossed over to him, sitting on his lap, an arm around his neck, feeling Tinsley's arm slip around his waist. "I was just talking about what an _amazing_ lover you are, of course."

"Were you, now?"

Ricky lightly took hold of his jaw, guiding him into a kiss. "Mmhmm."

"You two are sickening," said Isabella with a fond roll of her eyes. "I suppose _I'll_ finish the dishes."

"Lovely." Ricky got to his feet, feeling Tinsley's hand reluctantly slip off his hip. "We'll bring the kids for a walk."

"Bring some fruit for them. They always get hungry half-way to the river."

"Maybe we could bring a picnic for them?" Tinsley set his book aside, using a check napkin as a bookmark. "They loved that last time."

"I have dinner planned for later," said Izzy, apologetic. "But you could bring some bread and jam and fruit. Oh, and some crackers and cheese. Those are in the pantry."

Ricky got the crackers and cheese. He also swiped a bottle of white wine and two mugs, cramming them into the basket before they could be spotted. He and Tinsley gathered the kids, and started the walk out to the river. Pesca tagged along, pottering off ahead through the trees.

It was a slice of heaven, an untouched paradise. The houses were few and the neighbours were kind and kept to themselves, the sort that wouldn't pry, but would lend you a pint of milk if you had none. The old lady two houses down owned chickens, and she brought the spare eggs to Isabella every day without fail, wrapped up safely in a towel. The two old men two houses the other direction and across the street owned goats and a horse, and gave the cheese from the goats to whoever they had enough for. They lived alone together. Ricky and Tinsley had been invited over for coffee one evening, and it was clear to see that the two men were a couple; their photos together were framed on the walls, and there was one bedroom with one bed. The evening coffees with Miles and Jack became regular, and if Ricky and Tinsley had an argument, the old men would provide whatever mediation needed. It was a road full of kind people. No one ever came looking for them. They were safe.

The river was clear and glassy, and the sun was hot, so the kids splashed right in, shrieking and laughing. Tinsley and Ricky set themselves up on the grassy bank, filling their mugs with cool wine, snacking on the cheese and crackers and crusty bread. Ricky sliced up an apple, crisp and sweet, as they sat in content quiet, and he passed every second slice to Tinsley. They lay on the grass and they talked, and kissed, and debated what the white fluffy clouds resembled above. A dog. No, a cat. Well that one is a loveheart. Yes, that one is a loveheart, most certainly.

In the evenings they watched movies. Tinsley was content with this. He watched all of Ricky's favourites, the thrillers and the horrors and the romances, and appreciated the running commentary provided to him, most of the time. He loved watching Ricky watching them, the unrestrained excitement, the reactions like what was happening on screen was even remotely real. Ricky brought such life to everything he interacted with, and Tinsley appreciated nothing more than being with someone who had such a bravely vulnerable heart; Ricky would cry at sad movies, at Christmas advertisements, at humanitarian disasters on the news, and he would cry at happy endings, in books, in movies, he would cry while listening to love songs, his eyes teary, stray drops rolling down his cheeks. He had endless compassion and a heart that beat across the world, and Tinsley nurtured this, and realized that it was this that had made him fall in love with Ricky in the first place. It was the flashes of humanity he showed when he was trying to be cold, the sudden glimpses of innocence in his eyes that had always said _if I show you, will you understand?_

And Tinsley did understand, because he had seen his own insufferable loneliness reflected in Ricky’s eyes, so long ago, the quietly desperate need to connect with someone, something, and the frustration that it could be done, he knew he could do it, but he simply didn’t have a way to let it be shown. Now when he looked in Ricky’s eyes all that he saw was his own smile reflected in their shiny blackness.

But although Ricky approached life with such passion, he loved how Tinsley slowed down and took his time with everything, appreciated everything, big and small. He would stop and stare at a beautiful view for minutes at a time, impossible to rush. Ricky would ask him to taste a new dish he had cooked up, and Tinsley would take the mouthful, and close his eyes, and go _mmm,_ and when he had chewed and swallowed he would wait a moment before smiling and saying ‘that is deeeelicious’. In the mornings they would make love, and Tinsley would do so with slow hands, slow kisses, savouring every touch, his body warm on top of Ricky’s under the covers, the room just beginning to lighten with the dawn. He didn’t hurl himself at life so recklessly like Ricky did; he would often be found on the porch, book in hand, cup of coffee by his side, cat on his lap. Most of the time he wouldn’t even be reading - he would be watching the leaves rustling on the trees across the road, watching their shades of green melt and blur. Ricky would sometimes decide against rousing him from his daydreams. He looked too peaceful.

Tinsley's birthday came around when Lucy was visiting, and Isabella made him a cake (sponge with vanilla frosting), in secret, and after dinner her and Ricky and Lucy fetched it, in secret, and emerged back into the room singing happy birthday, the flames of the candles warm and steady. Tinsley's eyes were welling with tears by the time the song was done, but he smiled, and he let Marta climb onto his lap, and he let her blow out the candles for him.

"No!" Ricky hurried back over, striking a match, lighting one back up before giving Tinsley a strict look. "That's your candle, specially for you. Your wish. Blow it out."

Tinsley nodded, as he couldn't talk with the emotions welling in his throat. He blew the candle out. Later, in bed, Ricky asked him what he wished for, with a mischievous smile.

"I can't tell you," said Tinsley, laughing. "It's against the rules."

"Oh, _please_. I won't tell anyone!"

Tinsley smiled at him, softly, both of them facing each other on their respective pillows. He reached out a hand, cupping Ricky's face, brushing a thumb across his cheek. "I already have what I wished for."

Ricky placed his own hand over Tinsley's, smiling back at him. He was quiet for a moment. "Why did you cry earlier?"

"I just... I haven't celebrated my birthday in a long time. I haven't had anyone who cared."

"Oh, _amore mio._ You break my heart." Ricky scooched closer, pressing a kiss to the other man's lips. "I would have done more if I had known that."

"No. No, it was perfect. Just perfect." Tinsley looked into his eyes, their infinite love. He whispered: "Kiss me again."

Ricky kissed him again, and again, and again, each as tender as the last. "I love you."

Tinsley smiled, his reply quiet, soft. "I know, my love."

* * *

_**Six months even later.** _

“No, no, hold Pesca like a baby. Oh, that’s perfect. Smile!” 

Ricky smiled himself, wide, at the sight of Tinsley smiling, and the puzzled-looking cat in his arms. The camera flashed and whirred, and they laughed, and Ricky set the camera aside to be developed another day (which Izzy would eventually do, and on it she would find a smiling picture of Tinsley and Pesca, and in the reflection of the window behind him, a smiling Ricky, eyes covered by the camera - she framed it and hung it along with the rest of the family photos). They had the house to themselves for the next few hours, and they were reveling in being alone together, under the cover of the porch, the light rain pattering away on it. He sat beside Tinsley, resting his head on his shoulder, and they were quiet for a few minutes, the seat swinging slowly, the cat purring on Tinsley’s lap. Ricky eventually said: “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t ever get bored here, do you?”

“Bored?” Tinsley looked down at him, brows drawing together. He raised a hand to cup Ricky's face, to brush a thumb against his cheek. “No, darling. Never.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.” He stroked Ricky’s hair, pushing it back off his face. “Why are you thinking like that?”

“I’m just- I know we never really do anything, and I’m fine with that, but I was just making sure you were.”

“Ricky, you can tell me what’s on your mind. You know that.”

Ricky was quiet for a moment. Then he sat more upright, turning his head to look at Tinsley. “We’re still young. We won’t always be young. And I- I want to make memories with you. I want to do what every other couple out there does. I want to do what Miles and Jack down the street did when they were our age. I want to travel. I want to see places. I want to see Paris. London. God, I want to see Napoli again.” He took hold of Tinsley’s hand, tight. “But more than that, I want to see it all with you. I want you to be with me all the way. And I know that’s a lot to ask, but-”

Tinsley nodded, his eyes suddenly watering. “Yes. Yes, I’ll go with you. You don’t have to ask.”

Ricky sighed with relief, eyes closed. “Oh, that’s wonderful. That’s-”

“Ricky, I want to get married.”

Ricky’s eyes opened, his breath catching in his chest. “What?”

“I want to get married to you,” said Tinsley, his voice shaking. “I know it’s not- I know that legally it’s not possible, but who cares about the law? Who cares? As long as our close friends know, as long as the people who mean anything to us know, then that’s all that matters. I’ve done the big white wedding. It doesn’t mean anything at the end of the day.” He had kept a tight hold of Ricky’s hand, and he placed his other hand over it too. “I’ve thought about it a lot over the past year, and- and I never want to be with anyone else. Ever. This is it for me. _You’re_ it for me. So will you?” He swallowed, searching the other man’s stunned eyes. “Will you marry me?”

Ricky took a long few seconds to recover, as if he had been slapped, twice. He closed his mouth, his eyes fluttering, and he nodded, the teardrops spilling, rolling down his cheeks. “Yes. Yes!" He nodded again, eagerly. _"Y_ _es_ , of course I will, Charlie, of _course_.” His voice cracked, and he leaned against Tinsley, burying his face in his chest, arms around his neck. He couldn't talk for a long while, words stuck behind blissful tears. Eventually he raised his head again, lashes thickened with wet. "We could just have a small ceremony. Here, in the house. We can invite the road. A cake and some music and dinner. Yes?"

"Yes. Yes, absolutely." Tinsley smiled, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "And then we can travel. Together. Just me and you. And we'll get photos upon photos. We'll outdo Miles and Jack by hundreds!"

Ricky nodded with a laugh, ducking his head against Tinsley's chest again, feeling Tinsley's arm settle around his shoulders. The seat continued swinging, slow and gentle, and Ricky found himself thinking of the man in grey, and the words he had said to him so long ago: _I hope one day you stand and remember what I said - life is wonderful._ So Ricky stood, and he led Tinsley down into the grass of the back garden despite the drizzling rain, and he kissed him deeply, and he was kissed back, and he thought, _life is wonderful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ending was inspired by the song No Choir by FATM!! check it out its good


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